Public The Moonlight Masquerade [OPEN TO ALL]

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: Naboo - Serraris Estate

Equipment:
Masquerade Attire | Lightsaber (hidden)

For a long moment, Ace didn't answer. The echo of that kiss still clung to him, its aftershock thrumming through the Force like pressure beneath his ribs.

He blinked, once, pulling himself back to the present again and the ballroom's noise rushed in once more. Kinley's smirk was razor-smooth, that little bag of spice flashing like a threat disguised as a trick. Beside him, Devin had already cut in with that lazy, self-deprecating drawl, sliding between them with the ease of someone who knew exactly when to steer the ship. Buying him room to breathe.

Ace exhaled through his nose, tension easing by degrees. He didn't say thanks, it wasn't their language, but his glance at the pilot lingered a fraction longer than it needed to.

When he finally spoke, his tone was even, dry, just enough bite to sound like himself again.

"Yeah, not my game." His gaze drifted to Kinley, the weight behind it deliberate. "Messes with the 'magic powers'." Ace added, wiggling his fingers as if to make the point.

The smirk he offered her was faint but real, a ghost of his usual humor. He reached past her, snagged a glass from the bar that hadn't been shattered by his earlier lapse, and lifted it slightly toward both of them. It wasn't a Scarif Slush, but... it was better than spice, at least.

"You two go ahead, though. Toast to bad habits. You're both experts."

He took a sip, the taste dull on his tongue, and set the glass back down untouched. The ache in his chest pulsed again, less like fire now, more like an old scar being pressed. Then he straightened, rolling his shoulders once as if shaking off the memory.

"Alright." He murmured, his voice dropping to a calm that felt almost like armor. "Let's try to make it through the rest of the night without starting a war or overdosing. Low bar, I know."

At this point, whatever Kinley was here for? He didn't care anymore. It was someone's else's problem. Right now, he just wanted a distraction.

The Force around him settled, faintly restless but contained now, like a storm held behind glass.

Kinley Pryse | Devin Virell​

 

[Corazona von Ascania]

A thoughtful hmm escaped Cora as the other woman gently secured the flower around her wrist. The way her delicate touch lingered didn't escape the blonde, but she didn't rebuke it, either.

So much could be learned through body language.

"You are a scientist, then?"

The Echani's allusion to botanical experimentation was both a relief and a concern. A relief that her sense of smell wasn't entirely turning on her, but a concern for the dark nature that typically followed such practices.

And yet, she didn't find the blossom any less beautiful. Cora held her arm out, wrist bent so that she could admire the splash of crimson color against pale skin. Then next sound that left her was one of surprising approval.

Just when she was about to question the particulars of this new species, her conversation partner found a new angle.

The wedding ring. Beneath the crystal, Cora's lips pursed in a breath of amusement, an expression that reached the crinkling of skin around her eyes.

"Who says that this isn't a decoy to keep the suitors at bay?"

One that hadn't deterred the Sith, but Cora would've found a swift excuse to leave the conversation if she hadn't been enjoying it.

"My husband trusts me to fend for myself. But what about you?" She gave the glass a gentle swirl as one would wine, blue liquid painting a pale cloud along the glass' edge. "Have you come here in search of a partner? Or a plaything, perhaps?"

The air between them was light and playful, as much as it could be with the lingering tension that coiled behind their words.

"Lysander!" The Nabooan let slip, a bit louder than would be deemed formal.

Where she'd been all fluid lines and measured grace, Cora's head suddenly snapped to the side. Not too much - just beyond Jorryn's shoulder, that soft blue gaze piercing the crowd until she witnessed a lovely young woman embracing her brother.

Cora's heart lurched, as it often did when she saw Lysander von Ascania . Their relationship growing up had been so simple and pure. Now, it was a complicated, tangled mess.

Still, Cora found that couldn't love him any less because of it. To her, he would always be that boy with the blonde curls and a smile that lit up every corner of his face - not to mention her heart.

"Ahem," she was quick to clear her throat with another laborious intake of blue milk. Slowly, her attention settled back onto the Echani. "Apologies, that was rude of me. You were saying?"

Jorryn Fordyce

 

[Aerik Lechner]

WEARING: xxx || TAG: Quinn Varanin | Srina Talon | OPEN​

If Aerik or his siblings had ever set foot on Naboo, he would have remembered it. This planet had once been important to his parents. Gerwald had served as the Lord Commander of the Knights Obsidian during the days when the Confederacy of Independent Systems held the world as its capital planet. This was also the birthplace of his mother Naedira Darcrath . It was odd to the pup that they never visited the world, but the circumstances of her death and rebirth likely made it a complicated venture.

Would she remember her family?

Aerik could not imagine the difficulties surrounding those events. His father was not a soft creature, and only two people seemed capable of tempering the dark and violent rage the Dread Wolf embodied. The power to bring such a mighty beast to heel was something that Aerik did not understand, and yet…

She was here.

The pup knew better than to crush on a teacher from the academy, and yet it was almost a right of passage. Echani seemed to carry an elegant beauty about the way they appeared and moved, and even made combat and violence a radiant sight to behold. Aerik was captured by it. There was a certain innocence about the acolyte which the academy had not stripped from him, and most of that was due to how much like his father he was. There had been rumor and story about how aloof the Dread Wolf had been when it came to women, and it seemed Aerik was just as ignorant.

“Stay away from crazy.”

It was the only advice his father had given him on the matter, and it came without any further explanation or context.

Quinn Varanin was not crazy, at least Aerik seemed to think so. Even as he saw her across the room in the red dress and golden mask all he could see was her elegance. It was equal in his mind to that of the woman she was with, Srina Talon . The Empress was a frightful creature. His family was indebted to her, and by extension that meant Aerik was hers to command regardless of who his master was. If these two were not enough to convince the pup that Echani held a certain immaculate beauty, nothing else would.

He was smitten, and it was all too innocent for a Sith.

“Right,” he said to himself as he finished whatever was in his glass and set the empty vessel on a tray as one seemed to float by.

He pushed himself off the wall he had been leaning against and made his way across the room. There were those who had found partners and began to dance. It was elegant and sophisticated. This was not the kind of celebration his father was known for hosting. There was not enough ruckus, fighting, or mead, to come close. This was something more noble. The protocol here was something his mother and the Zambranos had made him practice. His fiery colored eyes would already draw attention to him. His behavior did not need to.

Aerik was stoic, until he was not. The only time he had lost control of his temperament was near his first change. He could not keep the anger or other emotions in check. What brewed beneath the surface of his stoney expressions was anything but disciplined. Aerik had simply learned it was better if no one knew. It allowed him to hide his strength and keep an advantage. It was a tactical and practical decision. Something Lupo were not known for.

Aerik was not just a Lupo. He was something more, something better.

His first greeting was to the white Empress, Srina Talon . He bowed his head low showing deference. This was what was expected in these types of settings after all. Unlike his father, Aerik had been raised knowing how to blend in when duty demanded it.

“Your Majesty.”

He waited for what time was appropriate, pushing every bit of nervousness he felt as low as he could. It would not show to most, but to the trained eye of an Echani, he could not hide it fully. His head turned to Quinn Varanin , bowing to her as well, though not as low as it had to Srina.

“May I have this…” Aerik cleared his throat trying to avoid tripping over his words. “Would you like to dance?”

 

[Isobel Serraris]

THE MOONLIGHT MASQUERADE​

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

The deception... Her smile wavered as she bore witness to how he had nearly drowned her gift, it did not provide her much reason to do it again. Should circumstance allow that... "And what told you that I would not do that now, Lys." And though a light hurt graced her words, she tried her hardest to make it appear as humour--As if that ever was her forte. Isobel forced herself to take a deep breath and let her disappointment slide right off, but that glimmer in her eye remained. The quiet judgment of the dishonesty he had fed her for the sake of not disappointing her, it felt so familiar and so agitating.

The dance permitted no room for distraction, and thus Isobel forced her attention back to her footing, so that it might keep her from tripping over her own gown. Yet her efforts met defeat at once, for she nearly slipped while following after Lys. Fortunately, she managed to catch herself, composing herself once more through the steadiness of his grip--and the gentle tightening of his hand as he studied the cuts marring her fingers. Of course... she had forgotten to wear her gloves, whilst mother had told her to do so, but her head was in the clouds as always. "The roses proved to be quite stubborn this year." The young lady explained, a familiar red blush gracing her cheeks once again as she coped with the shame. "And yes, I've been at war with them before I learned to walk." Which was not as young as it may seem.

When his hand found her back, she tensed--her eyes widening like a guarlara hearing thunder and a gasp escaping her lips. After a brief moment, she let go, not explaining what happened or why she tensed, it would only make things worse than they already were. "I never said I could dance... Or that I was any good at it." Isobel mumbled, and did her best to follow his instructions, but sometimes mistaking one for the other and stepping on his fancy boots. "Sorry-" She blurted out on one such instance, nearly tumbling forward, but catching his arms just in time. Yet the waltz continued, if she stopped moving, the pair would only shape an obstacle for the other dancers and draw attention. The girl forced herself upright and resumed the choreography, counting under her breath. One, two, three...

It went well for a time, and a cautious smile found her lips as her gaze finally centred on Lysander, and not her clumsy feet. So long as she kept control over her timing and... all of that, it would turn out fine. Right? Little did she know that her father's gaze had been trailing the pair since the moment they hugged. And his displeasure was as clear as day.

 

[Kinley Pryse]

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

O B J E C T I V E - 1

Kinley Pryse looks so good even her wanted posters have lip prints on them
​

"Not his game. Not tonight."

Kinley lifted her hands in mock surrender, palms out, a lazy grin playing at her lips. She never pushed the stuff, never had to. The smart ones steered clear of the devil's burn; the reckless ones paid her well enough to learn the hard way.

"But me? I'm a simpler creature. No magic tricks, no codes. Just bad habits."

"My kind of man," she quipped, rubbing her thumb and fingers together, the universal gesture for credits.

Once the payment slid across, the little bag made a reappearance, flicked toward the pilot with the kind of casual grace that came from too many deals like this. Kinley stirred her drink as if the exchange were no more exciting than the weather.

Her careful chestnut eyes drifted to Acier, studying him over the rim of her glass. The fancy girl who'd gotten under his skin was still in his head; Kinley could see it plain as day. When she finally caught that flicker of realization in his expression, that Kinley was the least of his problems tonight, she smirked. Good. She wasn't in the mood to play babysitter, and she'd rather not bruise any egos unless she had to.

"Let's try to make it through the rest of the night without starting a war or overdosing. Low bar, I know."

"Aye."

Fortunately for everyone involved, neither of those things were on her agenda tonight.

Acier Moonbound Devin Virell

A Smooth Criminal

 

[Raylin Fall]

Smokin'....
​

It was cathartic. Raylin was a lot of things, and not without his scars. He had escaped grievous injuries for the most part but the battles remained with him. He didn't have the force or wealth to wallow in, nothing to dull the pain or take the edge off.

Cigarettes and the occasional recreational drug use would do. And-

A stiff drink now and again. He stood up, rubbing his head. Headaches came first, then the shakes. The demon drink got ahold of him a while ago, and he hadn't been able to stop. Some days he'd stay in his barracks room, in a bender or in a stupor. Naboo wine made for good company when all you had was yourself and dead memories. It took the death of hope for him to let the idea of inner peace go.

He knew what he was. He knew his end. He'd die, with no fanfare and on some nameless or perhaps forgotten planet. It'd be a footnote, another dead Republic trooper subjected to the schemes and machinations of the demigods of Jedi and Sith waging war against each other across the galaxy. He'd die and nobody would remember him after about twenty years or so.

He took a swig from the bottle he swiped from the party- a whole bottle of wine for himself. His tolerance had led him to take it in stride, and he wouldn't be too terribly drunk- the stuff was light, fruity, party wine. Not sad-drink-alone wine. He stood up, walking further into the garden. He adjusted his beret and his uniform, then a voice said- ethereal, otherworldly, carrying the tone simultaneously of a whisper and speaking next to him. Like the voice spoke in three places at once, here, far, and in his ear.

"You shouldn't smoke in the garden."
​

Raylin, a quarter of the way into his stupor, replied curtly:

"Fuck off, ghost."

Raylin thought it was a person just hiding and being coy. A servant, a bellboy, a valet parking attendant for the speeders.

 

[Telula Vale]

Telula Vale
​

Objective: 1 - The Moonlight Waltz
TAG: Open
Wearing: [Dress] [Mask]


More and more recently Telula found herself returning to places, or visiting places that she had either never expected to return to, or had never seen before. Tonight was the former, and it would be quite the fib on the tip end of her tongue if she were to say that she was not somewhat nervous to find herself on this planet, mulling about in such elegance. A thought which made one of the young woman's hands lift to touch the delicate, albeit simple mask adorning her face.

Nervous or not, Telula felt no need to hide. There was no one she was attempting to impress nor hide from, and attending this masque had merely been something she felt not only the desire to do, but a need as well. Some small inkling that tonight was important and she was supposed to witness...though she found herself reaching for the mind of the dutiful Hound who was not by her side yet again. Sooner or later Kai was going to grow annoyed at his lack of attendance to her ventures and what a mess that was going to make.

The hand that had moments before touched the mask on Lula's face now fell to join the other along the skirt of her dress. She pushed gently against the fabric as if to smooth out wrinkles in the black lace that simply were not present. A sign of her nervousness, perhaps. Or maybe it was old habits resurfacing; an uncertainty of her surroundings and the people within. She had been a shy, nervous creature once upon a time...

Which is why now her posture straightened and an easy smile tugged at the corners of her painted lips. Whatever reason had brought her here, one thing was for certain, she would not remain a wallflower throughout the depths of the evening. The music was lovely, the surrounding people were elegant and beautiful, and that alone allowed Lula to start making her way around the edges of those currently engaged in dance while she looked for not only welcoming - or curious - people to mingle with, but perhaps a drink to keep herself this steady as well.

​

 

[Lorn Reingard]

Tags: Bastila Sal-Soren​

Lorn had mastered the art of standing still unnoticed, a Jedi trick useful in war and even more so at parties. A tray of hors d'oeuvres became his shield. He started with a cautious bite, then, out of sheer discomfort, ate half the platter by the time Bastila began speaking.

Her voice had a polished, deliberate rhythm, but her words carried weight. "Not permitted the luxury of friends." That phrase lingered. He chewed on it along with the spiced pastry he'd just stuffed into his mouth, unsure which sat heavier.

When she said he "filled the space," he nearly choked. He shot her a sideways look, a mix of bafflement and faint amusement, before deciding it was safest to chew faster and pretend he hadn't heard. With Bastila, it was always hard to tell if something was a compliment or an accusation.

Then she went distant. Her eyes tracked something, or someone, across the ballroom. He followed her gaze instinctively, tracing the same line through the crowd, and landed on a woman radiating impossible stillness and pale fire. Even through the masks, he felt a tangible weight, like a presence pressing on the very air. The Force stirred, tense and alive, and Lorn's gut tightened.

He'd seen her before... Just didn't know where. Before he could piece the thought together, Bastila moved again with grace and careful calm, as if settling back into herself after a momentary lapse.

Now she was teasing him about appearances. "Careful standing too close..." He huffed a quiet, disbelieving laugh and picked up another pastry, just to give his hands something to do.

"Do I dance?" he repeated, muffled around the food. "No."

He paused, studying her profile. Her composure didn't quite mask the strain underneath. Finally, he lowered his voice. "You said you're not permitted the luxury of friends." He paused, then tilted his head, his brow furrowing beneath the mask. "Who exactly forbade that?"

He didn't stop there. "And that woman you just looked at, who is she?"

Lorn leaned slightly closer, quiet but intent. "And why are you so upset about your 'peers' dancing?"

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

​

Objective1: The Moonlight Waltz
Tag: Isobel Serraris
Mask

Everything spoken earlier still hung between them, clinging like a venomous vapor, stinging his senses like needles. The flush on her cheeks was plain enough, the discomfort written there for any to see, but through the current that coiled around him, through his attunement to the Force, he sensed more. A deeper unease lurked beneath, a ripple of self‑consciousness that cut sharper than her words conveyed.

Lysander had meant his jest to lighten her, as he always did, for his quips had been his armor and blade, serving him well from the Core Worlds to the Outer Rim, with always the same effect of easing tension. But with Isobel, his humor had not eased her; it pierced. The realization of this jarred him more than he wanted to admit, causing his little facade of wit to crumble further.

As she stumbled, her body rebelling against the waltz, he caught her effortlessly, his embrace steady. That misstep would simply fade into the choreography, folded into the movements of his arms, which were guiding her back into rhythm.

The spike of her nerves struck him, though he dared not to show it.

Had she been seeking refuge from the sensations of this masquerade ball, he found he did not mind. For in truth, he welcomed it, the pressing of weight, the trust in one's grip. Rather than a burden, he bore it as a gift. Lysander didn't wish to push her away as his words had nearly done; he wanted her there.

The movements were channeled by muscle memory that replaced conscious thought so long ago, leading into another turn. Beyond their steps, the space around them had been mapped, aware of the other dancers, and the pulse of strings that wove everything together. When they were brought close again, his head dipped just slightly.

“I never meant to upset you. I was only trying to ease things.. it was wrong of me.”

Now, though, he risked giving away more than he intended.. his awareness through the Force, even muted, even hidden, might yet betray him..

The lead hand that had propelled them onward now cradled instead, less a command than a promise. A quiet smile played at the corner, just enough to unveil a glimpse beyond the surface. Every internal beat was steady. And so, he inhaled once more. The blonde then gave more words to the space between their steps.

“We don’t have to be perfect out here.” The hand eased at her back through the next three steps, barely a whispered breeze, hoping to make it feel more as an invitation than anything else. “We can stumble, laugh, and still move together.”

As he said that, his fingers trailed over her palm where thorns had left their mark; an acknowledgement of the wounds she had confessed earlier, an apology.. to say her truth was more valuable than any falter.

"Besides, tonight, I'd rather stumble with you than glide with anyone else."

​

 

[Jorryn Fordyce]

// Lady Jorryn Fordyce //
// Objective I // The Moonlight Waltz //
// Focus // // Corazona von Ascania //
// Attire //

---

---

As the Echani's hand rest upon the mysterious blonde's she could sense a faint feeling of apprehension, a curiosity in just what kind of scientist Jorryn was. Of course, the truth was presumably enough to scare the girl away, but there was a more readily consumed portion that she shared.

"I would consider myself more of a botanist these days, though this flower has certainly caught some curiosity." A thumb brushed against the red petals lying on Corazona's wrist. "I would love to tell you more about it later on, I think it has great potential to benefit the galaxy."

The conversation slowly danced back towards the wedding ring upon the blonde's finger, a smirk growing upon her lips as Cora mentioned it's use in chasing away suitors.

"I imagine it works on the younger, stupider ones, though it may incentivise some others." The Sith leaned in close to the blonde's ear, a delicate tune strumming along with the words. "Take me for example."

The words came quietly, an amused tone hiding whether the words were serious or not.

As the woman mentioned her husband, an exaggerated click of the tongue as she feigned disappointment in the woman being married to a man. Teasing in the way that only two girls who knew how these events usually went could.

"Should I have come for some playthings?" The mask shifted upwards as Jorryn's amusement continued to grow, surprised at the bold jests her new companion made. "Maybe I am some she-devil come to steal you away in the night. To bring you to my lair and have you surrender to me."

The words intentionally mimicked the raunchiness of some novels she had read in her youth, though the smirk on her lips gave away the insincerity of the words. Tempting as it was, Jorryn wasn't exactly the spiriting away type of suitor.

"I'm still far too sober to be searching for a plaything, and far too uninterested in the crop that seems to have cultivated here." Obscured amber eyes gazed upon the gathered nobility in the ballroom, no morsel so tasty as to abandon good company. "So I suppose I shall look for a partner instead, and I'm rather enjoying the one I am with right now."

Her gaze followed the woman's as she stared over her shoulder, white hair pulling across the limb as she craned her neck to follow the look. A blonde man stood across the way and a mental note was added as she turned back to Corazona.

"How about in place of your husband, I shall be your partner for tonight?" A hand reached across towards the blonde, held softly aloft as it silently asked to be taken. "I don't presume to replace him in every way..." Her voice fell like silk and honey as she allowed the innuendo to fall into Cora's mind. "But I am greedy enough to ask you to embrace me in a dance for tonight."

The Echani stood tall now a charming smile across her pink lips and the full visage of her intricate dress on display. She would allow the woman to take her in fully before making her choice, vanity caressing her shoulders as she knew there was no chance to be denied.

The hand awaited an answer, to be lightly grasped and allowed to lead the Jedi to the ballroom floor.

"Shall we, my dear?"

 

[Siv Kryze]

.​

OBJECTIVE 1: THE MOONLIGHT WALTZ​

​

Siv watched from the edge of the crowd, the din of laughter and strings dulling beneath the bass thrum of his suit's auditory filters. Through the golden haze of chandeliers, he saw Warpriest Prime — a towering blur of confidence and nerves — standing before the fox-masked girl Kito . The music didn't pause, but it felt like it did. Around them, the waltz continued, yet a pocket of stillness formed where the Warpriest stood.

The great goddess of battle, unsure and earnest, waiting for an answer.

He didn't move closer. Just watched — the slow tilt of his helmet catching the light as he noted the change in her posture: the tremor in her tail, the way her claws fidgeted, the vulnerability that came after courage. For all her size, she suddenly seemed small. And that, he thought, took more strength than most warriors ever learned.

Veyla Krinn lingered near his flank, her presence calm but sharp — taking in the same sight. Siv could sense her quiet read of the moment, how her gaze flicked between the two figures like a tactician gauging unfamiliar terrain.

"First time I've seen her hesitate," he muttered, more to himself than to Veyla. His voice was low beneath the helmet, a faint hum of static coloring each word. "Funny how the battlefield never shakes her, but a dance floor does."

He watched the flicker of life return to Dima's stance — a shy laugh, a nervous shuffle, the faint lift of hope breaking through her mask. People around them were still dancing, unaware that something rare was happening in their midst — something simple, human.

Siv straightened, crossing his arms. "She's finding balance," he said quietly, eyes never leaving the pair. "War teaches us how to endure… but not how to be seen."

The Mandalorian inclined his head slightly toward Veyla. "Let her have this one. She's earned it."

Then his visor turned back toward the floor — silent, watchful, the faint reflection of Dima and the masked girl caught in the mirrored black of his helm as the music carried on.

Tags: Veyla Krinn Warpriest Prime Kito ​

 

[Darth Carnifex]

There was a shimmer of movement, the ruffle of fabric.

Suddenly a man was there, slipping his arm through that of the silver-haired woman's; a gesture as gentle as water's caress. Curls of pale-pink hair fell across one side of the man's face, the other half of his head had been shaved down to stubble. A tattoo curled up the side of his exposed face, extending from a larger mural which seemed to flow across the breadth of his body from neck to hip. A mercurial smile spread his lips, revealing pearl-white teeth that seemed to glimmer in the ambient light.

Pale blue eyes, like chipped ice, looked from behind a blue and silver mask at the silver-haired woman with something akin to a mixture of warmth and humor. How he'd manage to sudden appear beside them, intertwined with the silver-haired woman before anyone realized he approached was a sharp vexation to the wondering mind. His dress was simple in terms of regality, but no less resplendent in it's own humble manner. Rich blues and creamy whites adorned his lithe frame, one that held only the faintest hint of muscles; it was a form built upon luxury rather than struggle.

"My dear, I had wondered where you'd run off to. You know I abhor being left to myself for too long, I simply cannot get enough of you, my beloved." He planted a shallow kiss upon the bare flesh of her arm, lips lingering a second too long to be considered appropriate for polite company. He chuckled obnoxiously, clearly enjoying himself far more than those around him did. His eyes turned from the woman at his arm to the others in question. "Friends of yours, dear? You simply have too many to keep track of."

Srina Talon | Quinn Varanin | Aerik Lechner ​

 

[Isley Verd]

There was yet another shimmer of movement, and another rustle of fabric that teased the air like a whispered echo of the first. Suddenly, a woman appeared at the pink-haired man’s side, sliding her arm through his with the practiced grace of someone born to the stage. Her skin was a smooth, rich brown that caught the light like burnished bronze, and her gown—a radiant sweep of violet silk—belonged more to the skylines of Denon than the vaulted halls of Naboo. Every inch of her shimmered with effortless glamour, from the jeweled clasp at her throat to the cascade of curls that brushed one shoulder.

She leaned into the pink-haired man’s arm with the easy familiarity of a long-time lover, the corner of her mouth lifting in the faintest, most dangerous of smiles. When she spoke, her voice was deep, velvet-rich, unmistakably masculine.

“Hi Dad.”

The word lingered in the air, sweet and venomous all at once, like perfume hiding the scent of a blade. The woman’s amethyst eyes glimmered through her mask, and for the briefest instant, beneath the glamour and silk, the Force itself rippled with laughter.

Tag: Srina Talon , Darth Carnifex + Open

 

[CT-312]

//: Reina Daival Quinn Varanin | OPEN //:
//: Outfit | Mask //:
//: OBJECTIVE 1: THE MOONLIGHT WALTZ//:​

It was her first masquerade.

CT-312 wasn’t built for rooms like this. The Grand Hall shimmered with golden lights and motion. Chandeliers cast their reflection across the polished marble floors, enough to reflect every masked face. The air smelled faintly of perfume as the hum of string ensemble played somewhere beyond the layers of conversations.

Her gloved fingers tugged lightly at the collar of her uniform. The high-neck design was tighter than her usual armor seal. A small fidget of someone more accustomed to checking gear straps than adjusting fabric.

The uniform itself was sleek. Tailored for ceremony, but still whispered of function. Black fabric reinforced by fine plating tracing her form. Faint bronze-gold trim outlining every edge and seam, emphasizing the straight lines of her stance carrying the weight of discipline. A crimson scarf wrapped loosely at her neck as its ends draped behind her shoulder. The golden mask CT-312 wore, golden filigree and dark metal. Its intricate design of feathers curved upward catching the chandelier’s light was far different from the practical helmet she usually wore. It covered her expression completely, leaving only her eyes visible. Sharp and cold. Blue against the gold.

To others CT-312 might have seemed like another ornament of the event, but she was here as a shadow of the Princess ( Quinn Varanin ). A silent sentry in ceremonial attire. Her gaze swept through the ballroom with mechanical precision. Every door, window, movement, even the interval between guards, the Scout cataloged and committed to memory. It was the same rhythm she used on deployment. Scan, assess, catalog.

A pulse of awareness brushed her senses, faint but deliberate. CT-312 shifted her focus towards the Princess and the Empress ( Srina Talon ) beside her. Scanning the surrounding crowd for potential threats. None presented themselves. Yet when she looked again, the Princess was looking at her across the Grand Hall. CT-312’s brow lifted behind the mask. She felt it like heat through armor. Was she in trouble? Doing something wrong? The Scout probably looked strange out of her usual camouflage armor kit... Or maybe it was a subtle cue to continue her duty. CT-312 moved again, resuming her slow patrol along the walls.

Every few steps, her eyes would flicker back towards the Princess. Watching those who lingered too close or leaned in with too much interest. CT-312 recognized a few among the crowd. Eira Dyn was already drawing eyes and whispers. Jorryn Fordyce who was occupied in a conversation with another. Others she remembered from dossiers. The rest, strangers wrapped in the same silken disguise.

CT-312 kept to herself. Silent, but listening. Words floated past. Laughter and gossip subtly maneuvering cloaked in charm. She didn’t understand it. The masks. The hidden meanings. A game of power played without blades or blasters. This battlefield was dressed in velvet and champagne, another kind of warzone. CT-312 has been trained for blood and fire. Not… this. Yet, she recognized the tension beneath the beauty. Observing: control, deception, dominance.

“Proper. Cordial.” muttered quietly beneath her breath. The words came out as a command, reminding herself. CT-312’s steps slowed, briefly stopping mid-step. Her attention caught by someone else ( Reina Daival ) standing against the same wall. A young woman who wasn’t part of the laughter or dance. Red hair caught the ballroom light like copper set aflame, faint curls shifted as she drank from a glass. She had a look of someone enduring the room rather than enjoying it. CT-312 recognized the feeling instantly.

She looked somewhat familiar, trying to recall where she’d seen her before or if the familiarity was only a trick of the light and setting. CT-312 approached with quiet and deliberate steps with a soldier’s gait softened only by the demands of civility. Slow and unthreatening. Her voice came low, filtered through the mask’s modulator. Speaking in a smooth and formal tone. “Pardon me. Do you mind if I stood here for a while?” A pause. CT-312 shifted subtly. Pivoting on one heel, her shoulders squared toward the open room. Her posture composed, but never at ease. Surveying. Adding a barest attempt at social grace. “How’s your evening been so far? You look like you’d rather be anywhere else as well.” An observation. A rare attempt at understanding.

Behind the ornate mask she wore, CT-312’s eyes drifted between the woman and the crowd. Ever watchful. Learning and adapting. This reconnaissance was a different kind.

 

[Fatine von Ascania]

Midnight Waltz | Cassian Abrantes ​

"Disappointed?" She clicked her tongue. "Not at all, General Abrantes. My elder brothers are soldiers, as it happens."

While Lysander had left home before he could be ushered into military training, Dominick and Volkhardt served as officers in the Ukatian military. All that to say; the texture of his hands did not bother her in the slightest.

"You think this is a role?"

Fatine's lips pursed into something approaching a pout. It was hard to look sour, or even mock affronted as they glided about the dance floor. "Well," she enunciated clearly, "if this is a role, then it's one I've been studying for all my life."

The teasing words, the subtle touches that still managed to hover in appropriate territory while drawing the mind elsewhere, they were all part of a calculated personal meant to draw her in - drawn her in, then keep her there, hungering for more when he pulled away.

Fatine had figured out only about half of this.

Still, her interest hadn't been lessened in the slightest. He'd only fanned the flames of her desire to seem as though she was something more than what she really was. How long she had yearned to step out of the role she'd been cast at birth, and forge her own path as a confident, sophisticated woman.

The trouble was her lack of experience.

"Perhaps you'll see me on the big screen someday. And if charm really is the most dangerous art form, then tell me, General…"

Fatine pivoted on her heels, and with a graceful twirl, shifted the dynamic of the dance between them. Only for a moment. Her skirts fluttered about her as she spun, landing with her back pressed to Cassian's chest.

Fatine peered over her shoulder, her wide, dark eyes glittering from behind the mask. Her voice lowered, soft not like silk, but rich like satin as her words carried between them, and then alone.

"…are you in grave danger, right now?"

 

[Devin Virell]

Kinley Pryse | Acier Moonbound
​

Devin had flown ships through plenty of storms, but the ballroom was an entirely different kind. The laughter and music was pitched too high. He’d navigated asteroid fields quieter than this..

The little bag of spice rolled between his fingers like dice he hadn’t decided to throw yet. He reached past the untouched glass on the bar, claiming his own with a flick of the wrist. He wasn’t going to be the only one without a drink.

Voice dry and easy, he tapped the rim once with his thumb. “Funny thing about this room… half these nobles are overdosing on their own egos already. We’re practically saints.”

He leaned his hips against the counter, posture loose, eyes drifting through the gathering crowds. The spice bag lifted in a mock toast, light catching on it before shaking it for emphasis. “So.. new game. Spot the masquerade tells. No prize, no penalty. Just bragging rights and maybe the satisfaction of being right.”

Years of sabacc had taught him that the cards never truly mattered as much as the hands they were in. A twitch of the fingers, a glance too quick.. the list of real giveaways went on. This gathering wasn’t much different.

His gaze snagged on Corazona von Ascania and Jorryn Fordyce . One moved with grace, the other with calculation. Some of the guests around them were busy adjusting their cuffs or checking their reflections, looking for a miracle.

Devin’s mouth curved faintly. He lifted his glass in their direction. “There. Silk and pale hair. That smirk's the tell, like she's already picked her mark. Biggest warning label in the room. Blonde or not, she’s leaving with someone.”

 

[Corazona von Ascania]

Jorryn Fordyce
​

"Incentivize?"

Cora's lips pursed together in amusement, a sentiment that reached into the tone of her voice. "That's a rather daring admission. If you're choosing to approach a married woman, I shudder to think of how many homes you've wrecked."

At the woman's teasing of where the night could lead - in jest, she assumed - Cora laughed. A delicate, refined sound with a rich thread of genuine warmth.

The offer to dance was sufficient distraction from the ache that came with Lysander's presence, one that she'd decide to lean into.

"Very well, she-devil."

Cora slipped her gloved hand into the Echani's own, the prosthetic humming with the faint buzz of electricity could be passively sensed by a skilled technopath.

"Let us find out how quickly I surrender to your wiles."

Flirtations weren't often meant with anything but disapproval from the blonde. She was a monogamous, married woman - but the company was pleasant, and she could admit to herself that it sometimes felt quite nice being approached.

Or perhaps it was the pregnancy hormones.

Either way, Cora made no fuss as she was lead onto the dance floor. One hand settled against the Echani's shoulder, while the other rested just above the woman's hip.

"Tell me more about these interesting flowers you've grown. Syringa Sanguis, was it? I'd love to learn more about their unique properties."

A bloom that smelled of iron and dark magic, much like the woman before her.

 

[Jorryn Fordyce]

// Lady Jorryn Fordyce //
// Objective I // The Moonlight Waltz //
// Focus // // Corazona von Ascania //
// Attire //

---

---

A small chuckle was hidden away by a gloved hand as Jorryn was compared to a homewrecker. It was true that she enjoyed teasing those prescribed to monogamy, but it was never her wish to steal anyone away from their loves.

But she did so love the attention.

"I seek only to provide a lonesome woman some preferable company." She jest through the sheer lace mask, her lips upturned in a playful smile. "Unless you would have preferred the arms and words of a man that was raised alongside your grandfather."

As the gloved hand was taken, it was delicately intertwined with Jorryn's own as she led them away from the hors devours. A smirk on her face as she turned back to the Jedi.

"Don't fall too fast, half the joy comes from the chase."

The teasing continued effortlessly as her jests felt more and more sincere, taken aback that she was started to feel a heat caress her cheeks. The blush was fought away by other thoughts as she took the blonde towards the dance floor, a slow tune beckoning them forwards.

One hand fell atop the woman's hip opposite of where her own was held, whilst the other twist around the woman's ribs and caressed the small of Corazona's back as the Echani began to lead the in a slow dance.

The dance was easy, fluid and sincere in its elegance. The woman's courtly upbringing was clear in the way that she followed Jorryn's lead, her steps swiftly following the Sith's own. Grace having been forced upon women of tender age across the galaxy, the Echani supposed. Still, it was nice.

A breath of fresh air from her recent ventures, and the Echani felt herself wistful for a life as simple as this before the thought was snuffed like a weak flame.

"A woman after my own heart." They drew close as their feet moved in turn with the sounds of the harp. "I intend for it to be a medical plant of sorts, though its purpose may turn some stomachs. Syringa Sanguis will be a plant that feeds on blood."

She awaited the shock and horror that often came with such a revelation, the magics of the Sith so often using blood for horrors instead of benevolence. Part of that was Jorryn's fault, she surmised.

"It will be able to take this blood into itself, before being transmuted into a more malleable and universal source." The pause was broken after a bit, hoping that the explanation may dull the shock. "With that, the live specimen should be able to test the effects of anything that would interact with blood, it's petals creating an environment similar to the veins of a person. Through this we will be able to find reactions to poisons and undiscovered elements, and create anti-venoms without subjecting live subjects to such a thing."

The pair twist and turned across the floor, the closeness of their figures hiding away the secrets of the Echani's research that she hadn't yet wished to share.

"Of course, when harvested it shall also provide a universal source for donation, as well as the petals themselves can be turned into dyes and perfumes." The white haired woman's head tilt back as she thought of the issues she faced developing the creation. "Of course that is assuming I manage to create a hue and scent so desired, which, considering the source, has proven difficult..."

Her musings faded as her grasp tightened, the tilting of her head and mask making the observation of Corazona's figure unhidden. Only to motion towards her dress, of course.

"You seem to be a woman of taste, perhaps you may be so kind as to name my flower?" A hand slid back and gripped the one draped on her shoulder, transforming their dance into a waltz as she pulled the Jedi closer. "As well as the name of the one I have in my hands...?"

 

[Reina Daival]

Tag: CT-312
Objective 1 - Moonlight Waltz

Boredom. That was the main thing going on in Reina's mind. None of this was for her. Watching people drink. Mingle. Party. It wasn't a place she belonged. It would be different, had she been here to protect someone, or had some kind of job to do. But it was time out of her own life. If she could still drink the way she used to be able to, maybe the masquerade would have been a lot more of an enjoyable experience.

However, there was one sight that was worth it. The sight of Quinn Varanin off in the distance, a wistful smile coming to the Ersansyr's face. There were few people who Reina enjoyed the sight of. Fewer still who's simple appearance could bring a smile to her face. Though she shook her head carefully to dismiss the smile from her face. The Princess was likely here on some form of business and perhaps pleasure. Her gaze flickered towards the others in Quinn's immediate presence. It was times like this that Reina did not care much for her inability to learn faces and names. The other woman with Quinn was similar to the Princess. A family resemblance? Or part of the stereotype that many Echani looked similar? Reina felt as if she could know who the other Echani was, but alas. She did not. Perhaps Reina would ask about her if the Ersansyr and Quinn encountered each other in the future.
​

“Pardon me. Do you mind if I stood here for a while?”

"Go ahead. This isn't my manor. I don't own it. People can stand where they want."

Reina waved her hand dismissively for a moment. At first, she had assumed it was some kind of noble or rich folk wanting to get away from the crowd, yet when she turned her gaze over towards the one talking, the expression she had was of...confusion. The stranger stood beside her clearly had more of a...military stance to them, as opposed to the posh she had been expecting. The mask...somewhat caught her off guard alongside that. Reina had never been a fan of them. They hid too much. Lies. Tricks. Betrayal.

"How's my evening going? It's the same as if I stayed away from here. Boring. Being surrounded by beauty and indulgence, whilst feeling as if I'm a blight."

In a way, it was almost ironic. Ersansyr were meant to be good at social events. The life of the party. Relish in interacting with others, but even having her species changed on a genetic level would not change her personality that intensely.

"I could be out there. Training. Doing what I do best. Yet for same odd reason, I've came here of my own choice...What's your excuse for being here?"

The redhead raised her eyebrow as she glanced towards the stranger, watching the way their gaze moved from Reina to the crowd, as if trying to take in whatever details as they could. Security work perhaps? Wait. Where were they talking to Reina because she seemed like some kind of security hazard? No. That was a nonsensical idea. She once more shook her head to dismiss that thought, before brushing her hair out of her face.

"I'm Reina. That's all."

Just Reina. Not Jedi Padawan. Not Reina Daival. No. She was just...herself.

Spoiler: OOC Notes

: Means written/typed communication : < Means Sign Language communication >

 

[Sibylla Abrantes]

​

To the Gardens!
Location: Giddy tipsy!
Aurelian Veruna

Sibylla could barely remember how to breathe, much less think. Her lips tingled, her heart thundered in her chest, and it felt as if the very world had spun right out from under her feet. She felt giddy, light, and just a little ridiculous, unable to stop the laughter bubbling up in her chest even as the sudden realization of where they were hit her. They had been kissing in the middle of the dance floor.

Oh, Shiraya.

A laugh bubbled out of her in a light, incredulous, giddy disbelief. She should have cared. She knew she should have cared. But instead of shame or panic, there was only that wild, dizzying rush in her veins, the kind that came from doing something gloriously foolish.

So what if they had been caught? They were masked, draped in borrowed names and false finery. To anyone else, they were just two revelers lost in the masquerade. No one would believe the interim Queen of Naboo and the High Chancellor of the Republic had stolen a kiss on the dance floor.

It was absurd, impossible, and exactly what made it so thrilling.

So when Aurelian's laughter joined hers and his hand caught hers to tug her off the floor, she didn't resist. No, her grin only grew wider as he led her toward the bar, his steps brisk and full of that familiar reckless charm that always managed to drag her into trouble. She couldn't even pretend to scold him this time.

Their masks caught the lanternlight as they ducked into a dim alcove, and she felt her pulse flutter anew when he passed her the glass, his fingers brushing hers.

"To bold nights!" She echoed, the warmth of the whiskey flowing down her throat in a way that spread over her that only heightened the fluttery feeling she felt in her stomach at the fact that she had just kissed Aurelian. That she had simply acted for what she wanted to do for her own self. This was exactly what he had been trying to do for months, to coax her into forgetting the weight of her crown and simply laugh and live.

And laugh she did. Their toast turned into another, and then another, the two of them tucked in shadow while the orchestra played on. The masquerade continued in a whirl of color and movement beyond them, but Sibylla and Aurelian were caught in their own small world, two conspirators drunk on mischief and champagne.

It started innocently enough. A toast, a laugh, another sip, but by the time he had convinced her to act as a distraction while he pilfered a bottle of Domaine de la Maison sur le Lac, Sibylla was laughing too much to stop the twitching of her lips as she made some silly commentary on how Set and Vere were actually real and how she met them. The distraction was a success even if the bartender looked at her as if she had drunk far too many glasses of wine, Sibylla quickly saying her goodbyes before scampering off to rejoin Aurelian. The two of them ducked past the guards and out into the crisp night air like guilty schoolchildren, hearts pounding and their grins too wide to hide.

The night air was crisp and sweet when they reached the Memorial Gardens. The hedges, marble porticos, and winding arches glittered under the soft glow of Naboo's three moons. Wisteria and night-blooming herbs filled the air with their perfume as they found a secluded corner to hide away, behind an ivy-covered arch. They finally stopped running, both out of breath and flushed with triumph. The bottle gleamed faintly in Aurelian's hand and soon filled their glasses with the slightly peach-flavored liquor.

Sibylla's cheeks hurt from smiling. She hadn't laughed this freely in years. She sat beside him on the low stone bench and then kicked off her shoes, only to lean back with a soft sigh, watching as the silver light of Naboo's three moons spilled across the gardens.

Her face felt warm, partly from the wine but also partly from him. In time, the evening's chaos softened into something calmer, something that made her feel lighter than she could remember being. Without thinking, she let her head fall against his shoulder.

"You know," she murmured, a lazy chuckle catching in her throat, "I've done this before. Stole a bottle of Father's Taurel Wine. Hid in the gardens, thought I was being terribly rebellious." Her smile only curved wider as the memory returned.

"They found me hours later, barefoot and singing to the fountain about how marvelous I felt."

The image only made her laugh softly once more. Oh, Cassian thought it was a riot, but her father had struggled between wanting to be upset and also not laughing at her silliness.

"I suppose this makes it tradition, then. Only this time," she glanced up at him, her eyes bright with mischief, "I have company."