Public The Moonlight Masquerade [OPEN TO ALL]

[Pom Stych Tivé]

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

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

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

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

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

Games are afoot..
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[Aurelian Veruna]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

​

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: Naboo - Serraris Estate

Equipment:
Masquerade Attire | Lightsaber (hidden)

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

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

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

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

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

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"You're not wrong." He murmured.​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Kinley Pryse | Devin Virell​

 

[Morné Karn]

Veyra Saelis

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

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

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

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

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

He grinned.

"Would you care for a dance?"

 

[Veyla Krinn]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Siv Kryze