Public The Moonlight Masquerade [OPEN TO ALL]

[Sibylla Abrantes]

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House Serraris Estate Gardens
Location: Trouble is as Trouble does
Aurelian Veruna

Sibylla came out of the kiss laughing, breathless, and utterly undone. Her cheeks glowed pink, and she found herself incapable of wiping the foolish grin off her face. All the while, she kept her eyes closed, savoring the moment still half lost in it.

"Trouble?" she murmured, keeping her eyes closed even as her lips slowly curved up with a teasing grin. "Well, that is rather rich coming from the infamous Prince of Parlay." Her laughter bubbled again, shoulders shaking as she tilted her head toward his.

"I'll have you know, I consider it quite the feat to be called a menace, trouble, and your certain death all in one evening, and be thanked for it in the same breath."

Yet when he pressed a kiss to her temple, her laughter softened into something more tender. Her lashes fluttered open, and she looked up at him with a small, dazed smile. Just seeing how he was looking at her sent her heart tumbling all over again.

It took effort to remind her tipsy mind that dawn would come and that they both had duties waiting. But even then, the heart still didn't quite listen to reason, not when he offered his arm with that crooked, disarming smile.

"Well…" she breathed at last, catching his arm with a grin that was all fond mischief. "I suppose I shall accept your escort. If only to spare you from Corde's dreadful wrath."

I don't want this to be just one night, he'd said, and Shiraya help her, she wasn't sure if the flutter in her chest was from the wine or the weight of those words.

Then, halfway to leaving, she paused and turned.

"Oh, our masks!" she exclaimed, moving to retrieve them from where they'd been set aside. She held his out to him and gave him a playful tap with her own.

"There," she grinned, bringing the mask up to hold it over her face again briefly before bringing it back down, "Your momento of a wonderful night!"

She slipped her hand back through the crook of his arm, her smile curving as she tilted her face toward him.

"We could always go to another event..." she mused, tone lilting with tipsy delight. Then her gaze flicked up to meet his, her eyes dancing with a daring challenge. "Or perhaps you might surprise me instead?"

As she gave another laugh, she let out a soft sigh. She didn't know what this was becoming, or if it would fade with the dawn and the weight of politics waiting to reclaim them both. But for now, in the afterglow of the masquerade and the peach sweet haze of the wine, Sibylla only knew one thing: she wanted to see him smile like this again.

~ Exit ~​

 

[Nianuke cyt]

Equipment:My armor and helmet, Vibroknife(Hidden)

The music of the orchestra, so pleasant to the ears of the guests, reached Nianuke Cyt as a muffled, undulating wave of sound. Out here, against the chill, ornate iron railing of the garden balcony, the rhythmic thrum was less a distraction and more a strange, consistent pulse. The air was thick with the conflicting perfumes of this opulent world: the sweet, heavy scent of exotic night-blooming flowers from the meticulously cared-for gardens, layered over the sharp, cold odor of credits and high-grade synth-alcohol clinging to the night air.

Nianuke's attention, usually a cold, efficient beam focused solely on threat assessment, found a strange lull. She ignored the glittering, swaying silhouettes of the dancers inside. Instead, her gaze was fixed on the star-scarred sky visible between the dizzying heights of the skyscraper towers. She was charting the dark, silent space, calculating flight vectors, but as she watched, a different kind of calculation took hold.

The lights. The colors. The sheer scale of the distraction.

Too exposed. Too predictable, Nianuke's training had initially whispered about the guests. But then, a different thought arose: the scale of the masquerade, the volume of the noise, the sheer depth of the crowd—it was perfect. It was the ultimate camouflage.

In the covert, silence had been safety, but here, this noise was her safety. She realized, with a faint, unfamiliar stir of something akin to awe, that the chaos was exquisite. Every movement inside was randomized, every flash of light distracting. Her target was utterly lost in a sea of his peers, and no one, absolutely no one, would spare a glance for a dark, motionless shape on a shadowed balcony.

She was hidden in the garden shadows, who carried the crushing weight of her Clan's silence and the constant, chilling fear of its annihilation, for once was calm. More than calm—she was appreciative. She was observing not a target, but a masterpiece of misdirection. The orchestra's swell and fall, the rhythmic pulse of hundreds of heartbeats below her, the smell of life and luxury—it was all a massive, complicated system, and she was the only one who understood how to move outside of it. She was the still point in the turning world, and in that isolation, in that complete professional mastery of the moment, she allowed herself the briefest, sharpest flicker of enjoyment.

 

[Devin Virell]

Acier Moonbound Kinley Pryse​

The rim of Devin’s glass caught the chandelier light, but that wasn’t what he was looking at. He was watching Ace’s eye track down the man he mentioned earlier as though staring down a ghost. That little shoulder bump and banter earlier was his means to keep Ace grounded, but the way his breath slipped now, it made him believe that much was fraying.

Either way, he’d keep trying.

“Streets just teach you the truth early. Every table’s rigged, every mask’s a lie..”

He leaned in, elbow braced against the bar, body angled just so, but the gaze was sharp. That smirk that lingered might as well have been for the whole room. For a few beats, his hand drummed against the bar’s surface, a rhythm to cut through the static. He didn’t press.. didn’t ask. Ace would talk if he wanted. And until then, Devin would just try to keep the noise steady.

Devin tracked Kinley’s saunter with the clarity of a pilot who’d seen too many hustlers walk away with the pot.

“Pryse,” he called, voice just loud enough to cut through the chatter, smooth as smoke. The syllables stretched.

His glass tipped in a mock toast. “If you’re runnin’ a side hustle in there, cut me in. Hate to miss a good scam.”

The grin widened a fraction before the crowd swallowed her.

Rolling the stem of his vessel between his fingers, he sat it down with a clink, leaning back like he had all the time in the galaxy.

“Biggest fraud?”

Scanning the many gowns and painted smiles, he chuckled, shaking his head. “It’s a crowded field. Could be the man with the too perfect laugh, could be the lady nursin’ the same drink for an hour.” Another nudge was thrown, lighter this time. “It might even be me, pretendin’ this swill passes for liquor in a borrowed suit, talkin’ like I belong.”

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

s

Bastila let out a quiet laugh — the kind that barely made a sound, a small exhale through her nose. “You know what Lorn?” she said, tilting her head toward him. “For someone who doesn’t like talking you sure do like to ask questions.”
Her tone wasn’t cold, maybe just a little guarded if anything; it had that Naboo kind of composure, polished enough to pass for ease. The chandeliers above shifted, scattering ribbons of light across the floor. They danced over her face as she spoke, soft silver tracing sharp lines.

Again she turned the glass in her hand, watching the staining of the now absent pale liquid catch the light. “I want to be a Jedi. Still. For all the cracks in the Order, all the sanctimonious lectures and blindfolded politics; I still want it.” Her mouth curved faintly, a self-aware smirk tugging at the corner. “It’s not noble. It’s become habit. I’ve spent my entire life wanting to be one that I don’t know what else to want.”

Her gaze slid sideways toward him. “But I’m not naive enough to pretend I’ve done everything right. The limitations?” A small shrug. “Half of them are mine. Maybe more. I talk too much, feel too much, question too often. That doesn’t play well with people who demand calm and discipline."

She took a slow inhale, buying herself the moment to breathe before continuing. “The truth is, I’ve been a decent imitation of a Jedi for years. I can follow rules, quote the codes, make the lightsaber hum when it needs to. But the peace, the clarity; I think I lost sight of it somewhere between trying to be the soldier that the order needs in this day and age and trying not to disappoint my family.”

Her eyes met his, sharp but tired. “I don’t need saving, Lorn. Or someone to tell me what I already know. I just need someone to show me I haven’t been wrong to try.”

For a moment, the weight of it lingered between them, it wasn’t heavy, just honest. Her smile shifted to faint and wry. “That’s the great flaw of idealists, isn’t it? We think if we just work harder, someone will notice the effort.”

She gestured vaguely toward the dancers, her tone returning to its dry rhythm. “And before you get that look; no, I don’t mean them.”

“You can keep your philosophy, I’ll keep my ambition. One of us has to stay interesting.” She added with a continued smirk.

The orchestra swelled, laughter rippled through the crowd, and Bastila let her attention drift with it, as though she hadn’t just handed him something fragile and called it humour.
“Now eat something,” she added, her voice quieter, almost teasing. “You look like you’re about to start giving advice or make a declaration that you're going to regret tomorrow. I’d hate to ruin a perfectly tolerable evening.”

OUTFIT: XoXo | TAG: Lorn Reingard EQUIPMENT:

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[Corazona von Ascania]

Jorryn Fordyce
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If there was one thing Cora admired in a person, it was a dedication to their craft.

Well - there were several aspects she admired, but those were neither here nor there.

The flower's sanguine nature earned an arched eyebrow from the blonde. A tic that would be hilighted by her lack of other visible facial features.

"A blossom that feeds on blood, serving as a live vector for biological testing and a synthesizer for heme products," she summarized. While Jorryn had taken care to extoll the boons of her plant, its potential for nefarious uses did not escape Cora.

"Impressive. Most impressive, actually. I thought I detected a trace of iron."

They twirled about the dance floor, a graceful mingling of white and black fabric. Appraising eyes wandered from the edge of the room, but Cora paid them no mind.

Suddenly, the Echani's grasp tightened, and she leaned closer. The particular tilt of her head made it clear where she was looking.

Up went the other finely manicured blonde eyebrow.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd gather that your Syringa Sanguis was created through darker means," she mused. Her lips, unseen, curled faintly behind dark gems. What had been the point of wearing lipstick tonight, she wondered. "But so many things feed on blood and bone. Bodies break down and enrich the soil. Living things return to the earth, and give rise to more life in turn."

"In that way, I can't think of anything closer to the Light itself."

She laughed, once, lightly, as the Echani lead them into the smooth, flowing steps of a waltz. What a cunning predator this woman was.

"A name?" She echoed thoughtfully. Her thumb idlybrushed along the pale line of Jorryn's knuckle where their hands clasped together.

"Perhaps a name that honors its particular roots: Atropa. As for my own…"

"I go by Odette." A moniker she'd used at - unsurprisingly - another masquerade.
She was enjoying this moment for what it was; a dance with a beautiful stranger, a playful interaction made of clever words and subtleties.

“What should I call you?”

 

[Fatine von Ascania]

Cassian Abrantes

Fatine's narrowed eyes had locked onto Cassian's face, eagerly searching for any signs of discomfort. She felt a flutterer of satisfaction at his sharp inhale, though she would've liked to see a grimace.

At his crooked smile, she felt another flutter. This one lived in her chest.

Perhaps she'd felt a little remorse of quite literally stepping on his toes, but Cassian recovered quickly.

"Pity," she tsked as he swept them back into the rhythm with hardly a wobble. "I should've worn heavier heels."

He was still playful as ever, and the girl didn't quite know what to make of that. She'd once pulled the same move on a suitor at an event back home, and had almost cost her family a labor contract with a nearby provincial lord.

"Fine, truce," she agreed with a ragged, perhaps overly dramatic sigh. "White wine. Sweet."

Really, she didn't know why she was pouting. Perhaps she felt outmatched, finding his unflappable nature grating. He refused to be her plaything, but was she turning into one?

"Nothing really rattles you, does it?" She asked as they absconded from the dance floor. "I suppose that makes sense, given you're a military man and the galaxy is at war."

 

[Raylin Fall]

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Raylin pressed forward, further into the garden. Then, he stopped near a fountain. It was small, but tranquil and beautiful. There was that woman again, this time, not opaque or glowing, but as if she was really there.

With, by all intents and purposes, she was.

"You haven't had a drink in a while, Sergeant Fall." She said, her voice no longer a chorus in a cave, but soft, quiet. Peaceful and lovely. Like a mother asking their child an innocent question. She was cold when he got close. He felt himself have something caught in his throat. Fear? Anxiety? Shame?

"The drink has taken you. Or have you taken the drink?" She said, standing up, fixing her lovely white and gold dress. His eyes followed her, wordlessly as she walked around the fountain. For a moment, she was dead again, rotted away. But not cruelly, just... matter of factly, it seemed. Like she wanted to remind him of what she was. If she was really there. Raylin stood tall, breathing slowing down to calm himself.

"They trained me to be good. Not perfect." He replied curtly, watching this woman pace about.

"And you are good, Raylin. Aren't you? How many men did you save just in the last few months alone? All those people- sons, daughters, mothers, sons, fathers, brothers. They all get to go home. But it's not the saving that bothers you so, I believe." He sneered, walking over to one of the hedges, to create distance from himself and whatever this... was.

"And what do you think is bothering me, lady?"

​

She pursed her lips in thought.

"Maybe it's the ones you didn't. Or maybe the lives you took. Or, maybe it's the drink. But- eventually, Sergeant Fall, you'll have to come join us here in the garden again. And you don't want to do that with all this heaviness in your heart." She stood up, walking to the other side of the fountain. Her voice was a chorus again, as if she was fading, walking away.

"Don't let the drink take you, Sergeant Fall."

He stood there in the silence for a long while, holding the bottle he swiped from the party. He thought of how to do it. To smash it. To pour it into the fountain. To toss it into the night. He held it tightly in his hands- And then took another drink, sitting on the edge of the fountain.

"This way, lies the path to hell."​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

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Objective1: The Moonlight Waltz
Tag: Isobel Serraris
Mask

With upright posture that could’ve been flawless, there was an ever so slight lean, drawn to the Padawan. Lysander’s shoulders relaxed just so, discovering a heart racing beneath the veneer. But his breathing evened out, composed, enough to hide that quickened pulse. “I understand.. once is plenty. And for what it’s worth.. I wouldn’t trade our stumble for the smoothest dance in the room.”

Dry wit, always at the ready, may have curled a shy smile at the edge of his voice, woven into the cadence, part shield, part confession. ”‘I fear no bruise.. though I will graciously accept any remedy you offer.’”

Lysander understood the weight of what she spoke, the sting of expectations and the shadow of reproach that could follow one everywhere; yet his own burdens had never cut as sharply as those borne by others.. most of all his sister, Corazona von Ascania .

Old shadows pressed inward, and with them rose the memory of his father's fall, how the path he had chosen as Sith had stripped even the dignity of a burial, the chance to stand at the grave. Once, he had been a boy with the makings of a hopeful Jedi diplomat; now he was becoming a young man entangled in Nar Shaddaa’s underbelly.

But this moment was too delicate to surrender, and so he chose to hold it carefully, unwilling to let it slip away, to steal what was fragile and precious before him.

Isobel.

The orchestra thinned to a hush, a faint pause stitched into the rhythm of the night, letting their exchange settle, like it belonged, woven into the dance floor.

“The expectations of fathers are rarely ones we can hope to meet.”

Silence stretched, but it was not empty, weighing the words before letting them fall.

“Try to remember that it is only the sound of what he fears, not the truth of what you’ve endured. What I see before me is courage. You stumbled, but you rose. You.. laughed. You kept going when others would have already fled the floor. There is no shame in that.. that is strength.”

There, nestled at the edge of his mouth, a small, boyish smile took flight; it whispered rebellion, an echo of his true self. In his expression lived a blush of light, carrying more than any tongue could name.

“You cannot undo what you have already proven tonight.. that you are far more than the sum of any misstep.”

Fingers twitched like a violinist before plucking a string, feigning to clutch the fading warmth of her touch, summer’s breath winding through a river’s veins. His gaze descended to the hollow of a palm, aglow with memory, before absently adjusting the edge of his owl mask.

Twin emerald depths were alive with curiosity as he held her confession in silence, as though it were a secret gift. Lips parted, as if to say more, but waited, always waiting for permission, for a cue that might set him free.

Breath gathered and ebbed away; from that stillness his arm finally unfurled.

"I should be going.. but would you walk me to the doors? Only so I can keep you near a little longer."

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[Lorn Reingard]

Tags: Bastila Sal-Soren​

Lorn huffed a soft laugh through his nose, a sound halfway between amusement and disbelief. "You call this talking?" he murmured, glancing down at her with an incredulous tilt of his head. "You've done most of the heavy lifting tonight. I've barely gotten a word in."

He leaned against the pillar, relaxed but focused on her. He always noticed her candor. Most people hid behind a facade of charm or authority, but Bastila, despite her dramatics, had just revealed her true self without even realizing it. That kind of honesty was rare. It might be rough around the edges, but it was genuine.

"Habit," he repeated after a moment. "That's not a bad reason. I've heard worse." His voice was light, never dismissive. He crossed his arms, slowly nodding as he considered her words. "For what it's worth, I don't think talking too much or feeling things deeply disqualifies you. The galaxy has enough statues pretending to be Jedi." A ghost of a smile curved under his mask. "If you're still trying, you're already doing better than most of them."

The silence that followed wasn't heavy; it was more like the quiet between sparring rounds. He let her words settle, then added with his careful, slightly awkward sincerity: "You don't need saving, I know. I wouldn't dare try." His voice softened then. "But trying doesn't have to be something you do alone."

He rubbed the back of his neck, realizing how earnest his tone had become. He immediately tried to lighten it. "If you ever wanted help… I could, you know, assist. That doesn't mean lectures about the Force or meditation," he gestured vaguely between them, "but with the surviving part. The rest you seem to have handled."

He let out another small sigh, looking back toward the crowd. "Though I'm still not sure about the snark," he added, feigning a thoughtful tone. "Might have to train that out of you."

 

[Cassian Abrantes]

Fatine von Ascania ​

Cassian's expression softened, though the faint smirk at the corner of his mouth betrayed that familiar, unreadable composure. "Heavier heels?" he echoed with a quiet chuckle. "Shiraya forbid. I might've had to file a report for grievous bodily harm."

He led her smoothly from the dance floor, weaving through the clusters of masked guests who had begun to drift toward the bar. The golden lanternlight caught on the fine line of his jaw and the faint gleam of his mask, painting him in shades of warmth. He didn't release her hand as they walked, didn't rush either. Every motion was controlled, deliberate, as though he were always two steps ahead of whatever game was being played.

When she declared her drink, his smile deepened. "White wine, sweet." he repeated, giving a small nod of approval. "A drink with restraint—elegant, but with a bite if you aren't paying attention. Fitting."

He guided her to one of the high tables near the edge of the ballroom, after their drinks where retrieved and he opted for what she had, as that particular beverage hadn't touched his lips yet. He handed her the glass, their fingers brushing briefly in the exchange.

"Nothing rattles me?" he repeated, lifting his own drink to his lips. The faintest ghost of a smile crossed his face. "You'd be surprised. The difference is, I don't often let anyone see when it does."

His gaze drifted past her for a moment, taking in the masked crowd and the shimmer of the chandeliers above. "In the field, hesitation can be costly. A soldier learns early on that composure is a weapon like any other." He looked back to her then, eyes sharpening just enough to catch the flicker of curiosity in hers. "But that doesn't mean the heart doesn't stir beneath the armor."

He tilted his glass slightly toward her, the liquid catching the lanternlight. Then the teasing edge returned, smooth as ever. "Besides." Cassian murmured, "You nearly managed to make me limp across the floor. I'd call that a victory. Don't discount yourself just yet."

He took a slow sip, watching her over the rim of his glass, his tone dropping to something quieter, more private. "You wanted to see if I could be rattled." he said softly, the trace of a grin tugging at his mouth. "But tell me honestly, what would you have done if I had been?"

 

[Darth Carnifex]

"If that were true," the pink-haired man crooned salaciously, "Then you would not have survived long with us." Fingers traced delicious patterns across her bare flesh, bordering on scandalous. His pale blue eyes found that of His son's, or perhaps more appropriately, daughter's. The arrangement of flesh mattered little to neither the former Emperor nor the former Vicelord, both shifting and adapting to fit whatever ends that sought. For now, they sought amusement for themselves, and the consternation of the woman they both enjoyed.

He chuckled at Srina's words, a wide cheshire grin spreading from cheek to cheek. "A wonderful suggestion, dearest. You always know what is best for your children." It was an extremely amusing performance they had slipped into, a theater for themselves alone to enjoy. None here would recognize them, least of all Him. For a single night, they might be able to undo the restraints cast upon them by their stations, and indulge in what normally might be far beyond their grasp.

A fleeting vice.

"I do wonder," He purred, voice low, "Why did you come to this place?" His smile never shifted save for an almost undetectable crease near the corners of His mouth, something that she in her deep familiarity with Him might notice.

Srina Talon | Isley Verd ​

 

[Pom Stych Tivé]

Darkest-sider disguised as a young girl, donning destructive Potions hidden within crystal buttons sewn about her dress.

It didn't matter much to her, who she made fit into her plans to slink through the crowd and seek for the one the spirits marked…and doing it like a normal person. If she did it her way, she would surely scare off Aether Verd for good; accidentally, on purpose, there would be little difference. In the Netherworld, where she spends most of her time studying the grandest of Magick left to her by the elders whom she gives a second chance at life to, she is as dead as she can be whilst among them, a truly horrific sight which she enjoys instigating. There is not usually much opportunity for the Queen of the Nightsisters of Dathomir to mingle with common folk anymore, and actually have to bear it without complete disgust from both parties involved and ending in bloodshed.

However, it is clear to her awareness that most of her offending instances where she finds herself at odds with her distant fellow…human beings…the Nightsister only recently jumps the gun on hating them first, because they have typically detested her upon initial sight of her physical appearance, leaving her little option to simply exist without harsh confrontation.

Now…at least for the moment, neither she, nor her unaware victim…person she is engaging with, seem to be veering toward the typical engagement. The night indeed, is still young, and all parties need a climactic ending.

"Well then, as we are not expected to reveal our identities anyhow, how about a dance then?" the little blonde asked of Eaton Waters .

A discrete twirl of a single fingertip, and Daroli Spesto had the signature he was hoping for manifest on his bill of lading.

Now if only either of their Jediness would not cause her to near-vomit again.

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