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..
​

 

[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.​

​

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

​

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.​

​

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.​

​

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.​

​

"You're not wrong." He murmured.​

​

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.​

​

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

​

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

​

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.​

​

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.​

​

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.​

​

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."​

​

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.​

​

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

​

Kinley Pryse | Devin Virell​

 

[Morné Karn]

Veyra Saelis

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

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

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

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

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

He grinned.

"Would you care for a dance?"

 

[Veyla Krinn]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Siv Kryze

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

OUTFIT: XoXo | TAG: Lorn Reingard EQUIPMENT:

​

 

[Quinn Varanin]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

[Lorn Reingard]

Tags: Bastila Sal-Soren​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

[Kinley Pryse]

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

O B J E C T I V E - 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Your move, Pryse."

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

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


Acier Moonbound Devin Virell

A Smooth Criminal

 

[Raylin Fall]

​

“Sergeant Fall.” A stern voice said again after he marched on. A voice that carried weight, pose, a Naboo accent. Raylin was irritated as it was- before he snapped, and turned on his heel.

Nothing.

Silence.

Unending, unceasing silence.

He dropped the cigarette and pulled the knife out. Long and sharp, good for armored opponents. Assassins wouldn’t wear too much armor here. He stared into the darkness where the voice came from.

“You got me.” He said with a narrowed set of eyes scanning. Not left to right. Right to left. More details. Any way a person read a book, do the opposite. More details when your brain wasn’t following a regular pattern.

No movement. No noise. No footsteps. No breathing besides his own. He tightened the grip on the knife ready and willing and able-

“That won’t hurt us, Sergeant Fall.” Another voice, behind him, close. He turned and pivoted, fast, low. One hand seizing, one hand going to brace with the knife, to stab or to hold.

But nothing. No one. Not a soul.

Movement behind him. Fast, a sliver of grays and silver. A party dress. And he turned his head- and only saw visages of death. Rotting skin, sunken eyes and hallowed cheeks of a once beautiful woman. For just a moment. She was moving towards him, closing fast. It was ice cold when she got close- then she was gone. Gone and never was there.

“You shouldn’t smoke here.” Another girl said. Younger in her tone. Quiet. Like a whisper.

“Fuck your tricks, show yourself.” He turned, knife in hand- ready to confront the threat or whatever was messing with him. Part of him wanted to run. But Raylin Fall was a Pathfinder, a Raider, a soldier. He wasn’t going to run from this. He needed to go deeper. Something wanted him out of the garden.

He’d push on anyways.

 

[Siv Kryze]

.​

OBJECTIVE 1: THE MOONLIGHT WALTZ​

​

Siv didn't answer right away. The music swelled, soft strings weaving through laughter and the gentle shuffle of feet across marble, but he let the sound fill the silence between them. His visor tilted toward Veyla — the reflection of her glinting mask caught in the mirrored black like a ghost in the glass.

"Not often," he said at last, his voice quiet, steady. "Only when people forget they're being watched."

His stance shifted — just enough to turn toward her, shoulders still square to the floor below where Dima and the fox-masked girl danced. "You learn more from stillness than from noise. Anyone can act strong when they know eyes are on them. But when the weight lifts… when they think no one's watching? That's when you see who they really are."

The faint modulation of his helm gave the words a metallic resonance, but there was something softer beneath it — not warmth, but recognition.

"Observation isn't about distance," Siv continued, lowering his tone until it was barely more than a growl under the music. "It's about patience. You wait long enough, the galaxy shows you everything — its pride, its fear… its hope." His gaze lingered a heartbeat longer on the dancers before returning to her. "Most look away before that happens."

Her tease still lingered in the air — careful, or I might start wondering… — and the edge of it drew the faintest tilt of his helm, a sound like a low exhale of amusement through the vocoder.

"Then wonder," he said, tone wry but measured. "Just don't expect the answer to come easy."

The chandelier light caught between them again — gold against crimson — as the music carried on. Around them, the waltz resumed its rhythm, but in that small space of stillness, their conversation lingered like a quieter song.

Siv turned back to the dance floor, arms crossing once more. "The battlefield shows what we fight for," he said, almost to himself. "Moments like this remind us what we forget to live for."

His visor angled back toward Veyla, the reflection of her stance mirrored perfectly in his own. "Keep watching," he murmured, low, as the next melody rose. "You might start to notice it too."

Tags: Veyla Krinn + Open​

 

[Srina Talon]

Tag: Quinn Varanin | Darth Carnifex | Isley Verd | Aerik Lechner
Location: Naboo [Serraris Estate]
Wearing: XxXxX

____________________________________________________

Srina stared hard at Aerik Lechner while he greeted her with title, ignoring, the disguise she had placed so much effort into. Her hand moved away from daughter to raise a single finger to primrose lips while issuing a faint shushing sound. "Surely you know…Pups go to the pound when they don't behave…"

A sudden touch came without warning, only, the displacement of air and the ringing trill of power.

It was a touch uninvited.

A hand slipped through the crook of her arm and for a single crystalline heartbeat the world narrowed around that trespass. Srina turned her head slowly and the presence she had meticulously buried beneath layers of Force-Clouding flexed like something vast pressed against a thin shell. Lanternlight flickered while the Force began to coil around the perpetrator like a ravenous viper. The delicate mask hid her eyes, but the air itself betrayed the change.

Warmth fled and was swiftly replaced by pressure. The runes in her gown kept it localized but the foppish fool who dared steal her oxygen would see the monster in her start to rise. Her expression was the epitome of emptiness, save, for the freezing cold rage that burned in orbs like blazing silver suns. There was an entire galaxy to be found in such eyes, full of the unknown, but most terrifying of all, they overflowed with the silent promise of r u i n. Complete, total, and absolute—

Oh.

Her head tilted while she looked up at the man with rose-gold curls and she breathed him in. He threaded through her, unmistakable, even while wearing unfamiliar skin and dressed in falsehoods. The rigidity in her shoulders loosened almost imperceptibly and a soft butterfly-breath left her chest in the faintest sigh. The pale Echani reached up and touched the disguised token that sat against her collar bone once more…Finally having the answer.

Of course. Of course, the Butcher King could hear her.

"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."

Rather than rip his throat out and forever stain the perfect marble of House Serraris, thus negating the lesson for Quinn Varanin , tension bled from her frame like frost beneath sunlight. The diminutive woman once again became innocent as the dawn while she stepped into him, her head tilting until it came to rest lightly against his chest, just over the line of his pocket. The unsettling stillness about her remained—And if anyone was watching, they would simply see a woman surrender to the gallant whims of her partner. But beneath the disguise…

His phylactery would carry a mix of relief and concern.

"You know that I am never far."

| You shouldn't have come… |

She blended in visually far better than the All-Father and there wasn't a single Jedi within these walls that wouldn't come for him, regardless, the rules of the Serraris Estate. Even if he was the better actor...

He was a Destroyer of Worlds.

Srina would have continued her thought, perhaps chastised the Dark Lord in her own way, but the reprieve from the frivolity of this gathering did not last. The noise of people laughing and talking filtered back in like nails to a stoneboard. More than that, she felt the air move yet again. The Empress fully expected one of the many wives of her unexpected visitor to appear and claim his attentions…But she was met with something far more sinister.

Yet another trick of shimmer and smoke.

Her eyes lifted and one brow arched elegantly as the second arrival revealed themselves in a plume of violent splendor. The gown, the curls, the flourish was theatrical in a way that would have made Srina sigh with exhaustion, had she not already used up the several allotted for this event. She saw through this glamour far sooner than the one Carnifex wore—But it was the voice that made her feel cross-eyed while she witnessed both male and female forms at the same time.

“Hi Dad.”

The words dripped with familiar mischief, though, Srina's eternal composure did not waver. She had expected many things of this night, perhaps even war, but never had she expected to see Isley Verd wearing such feminine couture. The smallest flicker of disbelief traced her features beneath the mask before she turned to stone once more…Her lips parted as if to speak, before closing again, while her eyes turned toward her nearly giggling daughter. "Traitor.", Srina accused smoothly, knowing, that Quinn would be on the cusp of enjoying her predicament far too much.

Her gaze turned slowly back toward her former Master and simply stared…In the unnerving, all-seeing way that always seemed to set everyone on edge. When her voice finally came it was quiet, silken, but lined with a glint of deadpan humor that was sharp enough to cut glass.

"Truly, you wear your years well. Though perhaps next time…", she leaned forward, reaching out slowly to touch the strange mixture of blended genders that her eyes couldn't help but see. The rest of the ball likely saw a muscle-bound woman, but Srina, saw both. Darth Metus and the female he pretended to be…For reasons she would never understand. Her fingers stopped short. "…Choose a façade that doesn't require you to call me m o t h e r in public."

She sighed once more…

And then winced internally from that sigh, having officially broken the limit.

"You will both undo me before the evening ends."

Her attention turned back to Quinn once more, caught, by her open laughter…By the way she teased Aerik, poor boy, when Srina deeply suspected that the dance was only a display to catch the eye of the brunette ( Bastila Sal-Soren ) who was causing her child to silently start spinning like a top, while speaking seemingly fondly, closely, with a man. Her tone was filled with ice when she called to the fading form of her princess… "Careful, little one."

"Green is not our color."

Her voice was pitched so that Quinn would be able to hear her over the party, but, did not address the use of her title. It had been quiet enough that no one else would catch it…But in truth? It didn't matter all that much. There were plenty to call Empress, plenty of Majesties, and neither title was unique to her…It was just one piece of the puzzle best left out of the equation.

It was as if the children had never heard of incognito.

What had the Academy taught Aerik?

What had the Black Sun taught Quinn?

And then…Another sigh. A small curse, but Srina straightened nonetheless and settled on the arm of one of the most violent creatures to walk the verse, as if, he was little more than a harmless dandy man. It was just as she had told her child moments before. Control. It was all that mattered, even, when these blasted Sith always found a way to incite chaos.

Control…She would have it come hell or high water and these two would suffer for unseating her. Starting with the former Vicelord of the Confederacy. It had been so long since they had last laid eyes to one another and this was the way he thought to approach her. No embrace, no thought, merely dressed in skirts he must have impetuously borrowed from his eldritch terror of a wife.

"Shall we find you a dance partner, Metina?"

Her lips twitched.

She hadn't learned nothing from Isley, after all.

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Moonlight Waltz
Fatine von Ascania ​

"Seeing you anywhere, I believe is a show in itself, a rather rare and exquisite one."

Cassian's laugh came quietly, the kind that hummed more in his chest than escaped his lips. It was the sound of someone who appreciated audacity when it was executed with grace. His hand, already at her waist, steadied her effortlessly as she came to rest against him, her back brushing his chest, the faint pulse of the orchestra thrumming somewhere between them.

"Danger." he echoed, his tone thoughtful, low, threaded with something just sharp enough to make the word interesting.

He leaned in just enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath against the delicate curve of her neck. "Not in the slightest...."

His fingers shifted slightly at her side not possessive, but gentle, guiding her back into step before she could turn again. It was almost imperceptible, the movement,

His smirk was small but sharp, like the glint of light off a blade. "Of course, it's easy to forget propriety when one's partner is an actress preparing for the big screen." He let the words roll from his tongue with just enough emphasis to make them sound both playful and genuine. "You have the presence for it, certainly. The way you move, the confidence in the turn, the poise in the pause, it's all very... deliberate. Almost convincing."

But tell me, milady." he murmured, "When the curtain rises and every eye is fixed upon you, what happens when the script runs out? When there's no line left to be read?"

His gaze held hers, dark and thoughtful beneath the mask, the teasing edge returning in the curve of his mouth.

 

[Devin Virell]

Kinley Pryse | Acier Moonbound

​

Devin tipped his glass back, the liquid igniting a fire down his throat. If this wasn’t a storm he could fly out of, then he’d just have to lean into it a little more, with the only thing that made sense: banter.

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

The corners of his mouth curved upward; not in a friendly smile per se, but a challenge.

"Hope’s for rookies,” said the rookie pilot. Dead serious, too.

He let the words hang there for a second.

“Anyone can leave with someone. The fun's in making 'em chase you out the door.”

His attention slid to where Ace had tilted his head, motioning towards two more of the dancers. Following that line of sight, his eyes settled. A noble, Cassian Abrantes , and Fatine von Ascania .

Easy read, and the Jedi wasn’t wrong.

“Yeah, more of a transaction than a dance,” he muttered, lifting his glass again. “That boy’s already counting the dowry, and she’s pretty much tripping over her own dress already. Easy one in the bag.”

Shoulder to shoulder, he gave Ace a small shove. "See? That's why I like having you around. You see things, wizard."

Somewhere in the mix, he caught some puffed up noble fiddling with his cuffs still. Maybe the fifth time now. That one couldn’t bluff his way through a perfect hand, even if someone spotted him the cards.

Amber orbs drifted, eventually catching Isley Verd . Too smooth, and certainly polished. “Yeah,” he said, voice pitched high for Ace and Kinley both. “That one’s a thermal detonator in a teacup. Might just find the most delicate hands in the building too before tonight ends. Smile ain’t just for him either.. it’s for everyone. That’s the real game there.”

Respect for the craft, if nothing else.

Then Srina Talon , composed, marble still, sighing like she’d already burned through her last bit of patience. He watched a moment longer before making the call. “She sighs like a sabacc player who just drew the wrong card but won’t fold. That’s the tell. That's the one you don't bet against.”

Ace seemed to be holding up a little better, or at least Devin was glad to see himself enjoying himself more. The other was more unreadable, but one thing he could see, was the same blue-collar grit.

“Yeah? So, what’s the rig tonight, Pryse? Hearts, more credits, or both?”

​

​

 

[Sibylla Abrantes]

​

House Serraris Estate
Location: Work for it!
Aurelian Veruna

Sibylla barely opened her eyes after Aurelian's lips left hers, a soft hum of laughter escaping as her mind caught up to what had just happened.

Peaches. He tasted like peaches. Sweet, warm, and just a little decadent, like the poached peach desserts she'd adored since childhood.

Shiraya help her, and she liked peaches. Very, very much.

The lingering warmth of the kiss outshone the gentle heat of the wine, but even then, she couldnt' help the faint, silly giggle that slipped out was half disbelief, half pure delight. It felt surreal, sitting here with Aurelian Veruna, masks gone, moonlight painting them both in silver and shadow all alone.

The gardens around them smelled of wisteria and crushed grass. For some, it may have been spooky. For Sibylla, it was a quiet refuge for them both. She let her bare feet sway idly, toes brushing through the moss and clover that cushioned the stone. It tickled, prompting another soft, joyful hum, breathing in the strange, wonderful reality that this wasn't a dream.

When Aurelian spoke again only to tease her, she gave him a scandalized look only for a burst of laughter to bubble forth after.

"Hahaha... no. Nono no nono. No singing," she said, waving a hand in quick dismissal as she shook her head with an exaggerated frown that only made her grin wider. "You may have convinced me to steal wine, but you are not getting a song out of me."

She turned toward him, those almond shaped eyes of hers glinting with playful defiance... which didn't work well when she couldn't stop her lips from twitching or how the pink flush of her cheeks made her heartshaped face glow.

"No singing," she repeated, attempting to feign severity before her lips twitched again. "Unless, of course... a proper tribute is provided for such a request." her tone full of mock command and teasing warmth, wanting to see if he would work for it. What would he do?

"Tribute first, Marcus.... then... we'll see how marvelous I feel."

She bit back another laugh as she leaned back against him, the smile refusing to leave her lips. The night, the wine, the kiss, honestly, it all felt silly, foolish, and just perfect.

 

[Braze]

Naboo
Tags: Braze

Epo-1, Lushi​

Being somebody important sounded so restrictive. Loomi remembered well when she spoke to Corazona after her engagement. The turmoil she had experienced was real, and very clearly harmful towards her well being. The Godoan's own mother was now only just coming to terms with how she had been forged into a tool by a caste system. Status seemed to bring so many issues. Maybe it was for the better that Loomi had lost hers.

That caste system hardly mattered anymore these days. Ord Providence was what kept it together, and it had since been lost.



"Dance... and maybe forget everything for a while..." Loomi decided in a hushed tone. "If... you'd teach me how to dance like everyone else is."

She hadn't done so before.

Tags: Loomi
​

"You keep saying that," Braze murmured gently, leaning in and pressing his forehead softly to hers. He moved to draw up her hand and lead her to the edge of the dance floor. He drew her hand up and set it on his shoulder before taking her other hand in his. His free hand found her waist, fingers spreading lightly at the small of her back as he drew her closer.

"It's easy. You just make little boxes with your feet," he said, offering her a small smile as he gingerly took the lead. He stepped back once, slowly guiding her foot with his own. "That one goes back. Now this one, to the side. Good. Then bring the other in, just like that."

He watched her feet a moment, then met her eyes again with his own soft green gaze. "You feel the pattern? It's all rhythm. Step, slide, close. Then the same again. Don't overthink it. Let me pull, you follow the turn. I won't let you trip."

He turned them lightly, keeping her steady through the shift. "There," he said softly, voice tinged with a small bit of pride. "That's it. You've got it now."