Public The Moonlight Masquerade [OPEN TO ALL]

[Warpriest Prime]

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MOONLIGHT WALTZ
Regalia of Ha'rangir​

The music of Naboo's grand masquerade swelled like liquid gold through the air, strings and flutes weaving in decadent rhythm beneath the crystal chandeliers. Beneath that soft, gilded light, the Grand Priestess of Ha'rangir looked almost mortal for once.

The azure titan of the Arks stood among silk and perfume, her polished armor traded for layered finery that shimmered with every breath. Jewels glimmered across her horns, her mask carved in the likeness of some mythic goddess, and her long tail coiled nervously around her frame as though it might shield her from the judging eyes of the elegant. She was trying, really trying, to play the part of a noble lady tonight. But beneath all that velvet and gold, she was still Dima: fierce, awkward, and radiantly alive.

When she approached the masked ronin, she half expected to be laughed off, brushed aside for her brutish stature and alien heritage. Every ounce of confidence in her posture trembled at the edges. She had fought gods and slaughtered kings, yet the thought of being rejected for a dance made her stomach twist in knots. Her tail curled tighter, claws fidgeting with the hem of her silks as she forced a smile beneath her porcelain mask.

But then, Kito moved.

The woman's hand rose, lifting her mask just enough to reveal lips curved in quiet strength, voice warm and steady as she told Dima not to speak so lowly of herself. The words alone disarmed her completely, like a prayer answered.

And then came the kiss.

A soft brush of warmth on her claws, delicate yet deliberate, sending a jolt of shock straight through her chest. Dima froze, all five of her eyes widened behind her mask, her crystalline pupils dilating in wonder as her entire face flushed blue with heat. Her fingers twitched in Kito's grasp, and she brought a second hand up to her cheek as if to hide the light glowing beneath her skin.

"O-oh my stars... oh gods above and below, you, you really think so?" she gasped, her voice pitching high with girlish disbelief. "You think I could be a beautiful princess?"

Her words stumbled out in a bubbling rush of laughter, equal parts flustered and elated. The mighty Warpriest of the Iron Clergy, slayer of a hundred foes, was suddenly nothing more than a bashful maiden at her first dance.

And when Kito guided her to the floor, Dima followed in an enchanted daze. She glanced toward the crowd, catching sight of Siv Kryze & Veyla Krinn across the room, and instantly threw up three exuberant thumbs in their direction four if her remaining hand hadn't been claimed by her charming dance partner.

Then the music took her.

Kito's hand settled on her hip, guiding her through the rhythm. Dima tried to follow, gods, she tried. Her steps large and clumsy at first, her tail swishing so hard it nearly upended a passing waiter. Each misstep was punctuated by a nervous giggle and a whispered apology, until finally she began to match Kito's movements, her body learning by instinct the same way it did in battle.

When Kito leaned closer, voice low and teasing, whispering that she didn't wait for "cute boys", that there were better choices, Dima's glow erupted. Her scales shimmered in pulsing waves of azure and violet light, her tail curling and uncurling with frantic joy.

"You, you think I'm a better choice?" she purred breathlessly, her voice trembling between laughter and awe. "Then maybe... just this once...I'll let you lead, my lady knight."

Her grin widened, soft and radiant behind the mask, as the two of them spun across the marble floor. Around them, guests stumbled to avoid her wagging tail, laughter spilling through the air, but Dima didn't notice a thing.

For one perfect moment, under the moonlit chandeliers of Naboo, the goddess of war became something else entirely.

Not a warrior, not a prophet, not a monster.

Just a woman, laughing, glowing, and utterly in love with the moment.

Kito​

 

[Isobel Serraris]

THE MOONLIGHT MASQUERADE​

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

When her eyes lifted to the dais, a single glance from her father screamed his disapproval, his confusion, and his struggle to intervene. The faint twitch of his lip as he folded his arms was a common warning, an unspoken promise of the nightmares that might follow in the Masquerade's wake.

Incompetence was the bane of noble society, the tightening shackle around a lord's wrist, for someday they must answer for their lapses and that of their kin--The latter a nightmare in the family Serraris. Unprofessional footwork, nightly escapades to forbidden fetes or accusations of scheming. And while Isobel's flaw appeared so shallow, so precise, it was the worst of the three siblings. To present oneself in public meant to present their house, their values, their worth, to stumble and frolick would be to confess there was no order, no... potential--marriage or otherwise. So whatever words Lys may conjure up to make her blush, it would not diminish the damages that must be answered for.

A faint smile was brought forth to her lips, its glee would not meet her eyes, which glimmered dimly in certain sorrow, or regret. "You charm me, mister." Formalities forged shield and armour to protect oneself from the embittered knives from their foes. And yet, the way her jaw tensed lightly and her smile fainted in discomfort, dared speak volumes on her strife. The following silence dried her lips and fell uneasy on her mind, although his resolve refused to falter. The proposed balm an abandoned remedy, one that would not even soothe her own spirits in the aftermath of their eve. The forlorn disagreement of one bringing a hex on what had been joyous and pleasant. But such had been the way of things. . .

Lysander's words echoed with a particular edge of understanding to them, as if he too had been troubled by such expectations. "Strength matters not in the eyes of some. Or at least not the 'strength' you imply." She spoke softer, not permitting his name to roll from her tongue. And yet... the Nabooan stepped closer, her arm weaving around his. The closest nobility may be without the holo-tabloids were being crowded with lengthy articles about who courted who and what scandalous acts had been unleashed in and out the ballroom.

Her fingers tapped absent-mindedly on the sleeve of his arm, whilst her thumb brushed lazily over the fabric. His presence the only steady one amid the crowd--the Force translating it into a gentle, resonant hum which moved in waves over her senses. "Mayhap I would have quit earlier--had I not a perfect teacher dragging me through the dance." Her words were slow, caged, and yet glittered as her thoughts repeated the night's chaotic events. Isobel did not move yet, not until the façade of 'courtly perfection' cracked at the mention of his departure. Part of her had longed to show him the everlillies, or do a tour of the gardens, but her mind agreed that further interaction may sully their reputation further.

With a single nod, she fell into step beside him, the two of them weaving through hordes of nobles chattering about investments and developing motions and laws, while others nearly spilled their champagne on her gown as they brushed past. Once outside, the cold air met her skin with a shiver, her hand holding on a little tighter to his arm, before coming to terms with her flaw and taking her distance. The Padawan's hands sat nervously at her sides as the silence threatened to consume the pair again. What must one say in farewell after this eventful night? A joke? A compliment? An apology? The words died on her tongue as her gaze flicked over his face, looking upon every detail in a matter of seconds.

The doors of the ballroom closed once more, outside it was quiet... Nature's song allowing itself to be heard over the faint clamour of instruments and the never-ceasing chatter between guests. She was expected to return soon, for lingering any longer would only feed the leeches. So Isobel stepped closer, rising onto her toes to mayhap place a kiss on his cheek. Yet... nothing came. In time only the chill of the night brought a kiss to his skin, as stammered words was all Isobel dared conjure up. An apology, something else? Possibly. . . One thing, however, remained certain, she had left him behind in the gardens to reclaim her place on the dais by her kin.

​

 

[Braze]

Tags: Loomi
​

Braze gently drew her in, guiding both her hands to rest on either side of his neck.
"I've been thinking about asking you that since the first time we met," he murmured, his voice low and warm as he moved with her in step to the music.

"I felt bad, seeing you stranded like that. I wanted to do something… something that might make life a little better for you." His tone softened further, a hesitant smile ghosting over his lips. "Truth is, I could never quite work up the courage to ask. It always felt like it might be a touchy subject."

He hesitated, eyes flicking toward hers before dropping briefly, bashfully. "The more I thought about it, the more unsure I became about what you'd think. I've spent more hours than I'll admit walking that tightrope... pretending you were there with me."

He sighed softly as he took her hand and took a few more steps gently leading her along.
"Girls... are strange to me... I suddenly loose my voice when I realize I'm talking to one and forget what I want to say... or think way too much about what is okay to say.... Was always afraid I'd say the wrong thing... "

 

[Lorn Reingard]

Tags: Bastila Sal-Soren​

Lorn stayed quiet as she spoke. The corner of his mouth twitched when she accused him of making sincerity sound fashionable. That was a first. He wasn't sure if that counted as a compliment or a warning, but he took it.

He let her talk, about trying, about breaking, about pretending the cracks belonged there. He didn't interrupt. He just listened, arms folded loosely, his head tilted slightly toward her. The part about ruining better men earned a faint huff of air through his nose, a sound that was neither a laugh nor disbelief. "Good thing I'm not one of the better ones," he said under his breath, more to himself than her.

When she warned him not to look at her like she was worth mentoring, he didn't flinch away. If anything, he looked steadier. He understood that kind of deflection; the way people used humor to patch over trust that had gone missing a long time ago. He'd done it himself too many times to count.

When she finally said she'd take the help, the quiet that followed was full but not uncomfortable. Lorn nodded once, slow and deliberate. "That's all I ask," he said simply. He offered no grand promises or lectures. Just that small agreement between two people trying to figure out how not to fall apart in the same galaxy.

He straightened a little, glancing toward the dance floor, where the music was swelling again in all its practiced elegance. "You know," he said, his voice lighter now, "I've been told I'm terrible company at parties. Something about standing too still and glaring too much." He gestured vaguely toward the dancers. "So do me a favor: try and have some fun tonight. At least one of us should."

He let the smallest smirk ghost under his mask. "And don't worry. The snark stays. Wouldn't want to make the galaxy too quiet."

 

[Eira Dyn]

Objective: 1/3
Outfit: Dress with Mask
Equipment: None
Tag: Korda Veydran | Aaliyah

Eira could feel eyes on her, it was to be expected and she welcomed it. From an early age, the Sith apprentice knew she was considered a beauty. It was only in more recent years that she had begun to learn the skills needed in order to weaponize her looks to her advantage. Wearing outfits that accentuated her figure and drew the eye. It was also a risky move since she was in a den of Light Side fools but Eira figured the more that she stood out, the less others would be suspicious of her presence here. Why would such an apprentice dare to attend a ball at the home world of her arch nemesis and dress in a manner that would call her to attention?

It just made her grin at the notion that the weak did not notice a lioness was amongst them.

Sensing someone approaching, Eira gave the appearance of being caught off guard but her mind and body were well prepared for his arrival. "I thought so as well. It would be of poor standing for a lady such as myself to appear anything less than fabulous." Eira stated, her voice was low, husky though still feminine in tone. Her blood red eyes flickered over to the man's face, taking in what she could and attempting to discern who he might be. Was he Jedi, High Republic, something else? Anyone who wasn't a Sith from the Sith Order would be someone of value in terms of a potential informant.

"Perhaps I stand still because I am merely waiting for the right person to appear, to stand out from a crowd of meek and shy." A gentle smirk played on her full lips as she lifted the glass and took another sip of the wine. Eira could feel the eyes of someone else lingering on her, eyes that saw through the guise that she was portraying. It was someone else who lingered in the darkness, someone that was not an ally of the Jedi. Eira was curious but she was not going to rudely leave the conversation she was involved in to investigate. Especially since there was more to benefit from this interaction than meeting people with the same agenda as her.

Offering her hand for Korda to kiss, Eira nodded her head, "Lady Keela." A false name that Eira had given in order to attend this ball, it would be stupid to provide her real name since it would undermine the whole undercover aspect of her work. "Of the noble House of Caevolus from Kalinda." Another fictitious name from a fairly unremarkable world. Eira figured that no one would be able to fact check her identity till this ball was far from over and therefore she would remain safe for the night.

"A night of conversation, dancing and drinking... That is something I assumed was guaranteed for a ball such as this one. The masks just allowing us to speak more freely of ourselves than we would without them." Eira took another sip of her wine. "I do not seen an intrusion from you yet, but is it truly all you wish to do, merely drink?" Eira raised an eyebrow, curious what the man truly desired from this.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

​

Objective1: The Moonlight Waltz
Tag: Isobel Serraris
Mask

Lysander didn’t deign to follow her gaze, perhaps a different dance, one too delicate. But in that whispered moment, a subtle shift may have been enough to know where they landed; and in that brief glance, he could almost surmise the thoughts swirling within Isobel.

So instead, it dropped to a small space of polished floor between them, a place where words dared not tread. The silence that wrapped around him there was louder than any song, though he felt patient and serene, not pressing, not chasing.. just allowing everything to breathe. Much like their afternoon over tea where he enjoyed nothing more than the melody of her presence.

The word charm fluttered in his ear like a stranger, tied to a past he'd nearly forgotten. There was no plan to weave magic into words, only to let a piece of the self untouched by shadow slip free in her golden aura. The curve of her lips resembled a shy wildflower, one untouched by the deep pools of her eyes, and it was then Lysander observed the sorrow nestling in the gentle folds of her expression. A thread of quiet pain tugged lightly at the heartstrings. Though he’d summoned the courage to ask for her escort, it was the touch of her arm slipping through his that truly stole him away. His gaze softened, drifting shyly to where her hand brushed a sleeve. For a beat he just looked, surprised even at how natural it felt, for the request had been a formality, and in return, the reality became something sweeter.

“But it was you who showed me something worth learning. That strength isn’t in the perfect step.. but in choosing not to quit. For that, I owe you my thanks, for the memory of an evening I won’t forget.”

The words slipped from his tongue smoother than intended, softer than he meant, polished, as if plucked from a poem. Lysander winced at himself, knowing sincerity shouldn't sound so gilded.. but they'd already fallen, and he meant every syllable.

Stepping out into the night's embrace, the cool air spilled across his exposed flesh, replenishing and invigorating after the suffocating ballroom, thick with the scent of perfume, as if Naboo herself finally exhaled. The hush of gardens pressed closed, and the sounds of nature wove a softer tune than any orchestra inside.

...Only then did he turn to her, emerald flames soaring to meet her, unshielded, a bloom unfolding beneath morning sun, a glimpse into the real him, an unbarred portal. Though the gravity of a silent invitation was present, he would not breach her sacred space; how profane it would be, to trespass the very thing that drew him to the Padawan. To him, she was pure, untouched, and infinitely beautiful, the very stars that made her shine.

A silhouette rose softly, a fragile bridge across the void. The Sith's breath stalled, shoulders drawn forth. But when she retreated, only stillness became his chosen path. What was left behind was akin to a blade's murmur. An absence rippled through him, quietly, settling like dust across his chest. It wasn't to say the silence was empty; no, it was full of her, of what she withheld under armor, of what she almost gave. Lysander did not deflect with pride nor wit.. he simply surrendered. In doing so, he honored it.

The gap could have been closed in a single step, a single breath, claiming what hovered between them, but devotion for Lysander was measured in patience, honed by cruel trials in the Outer Rim's storms. Beneath the pale moonlight, he stood tall, where quiet gathered just long enough for clarity to arrive. And when truth crept forward, a veil lifting, what rose in place may have bore the grace of a blessing bestowed by Ashla, a prayer answered; in her presence, the truth was simple. For the first time in years, the Dark’s harsh grasp began to unfasten.

-Exit-

​

 

[Loomi]

Naboo
Tags: Braze

Epo-1, Lushi​

"Girls... are strange to me... I suddenly loose my voice when I realize I'm talking to one and forget what I want to say... or think way too much about what is okay to say.... Was always afraid I'd say the wrong thing... "

"Even after you had free access to my dreams?" Loomi noted, her mouth forming into a gentle smile. "A gift is someone's heart bared to another... I would have happily accepted them if you did so."

The Godoan leaned in and pressed her cheek to Braze's, letting out an exhale.

"I'll always wear my feelings on my sleeve," she expressed. "I'm an open book. I can promise you with certainty that everything is as you see it. You know that I'll listen to anything you have to say..." The young woman paused, letting out an airy chuckle. "You talk a lot after all. Someone has to pay attention to everything."

That was how Loomi worked best. Listening to others to better understand them, so that when she spoke it was meaningful. Something that improved other's state of mind.

 

[Braze]

Tags: Loomi
​

It was nice, hearing such kind words from Loomi. She always had that gentle way about her, saying soft, sweet things that warmed the hearts of those around her. Braze liked that a great deal about her. There weren't many like her, kind in every breath, light in every word.

For a while, he said nothing, simply leaning into her touch, the quiet between them comfortable and bright. Then, with a soft breath, he turned, guiding her through the slow rhythm of their dance. His steps were careful, almost reverent, as though afraid to disturb the moment. When he paused, it was only to let the motion bloom again, his hand loosening just enough to spin her outward, the movement catching a rustle of fabric as she turned.

"There... is so much... more... That I never say. "

 

[Fatine von Ascania]

So he did get rattled. Just not in the way that elicited an outward reaction. And possibly, not by her.

Fatine nursed her drink with a slow sip, lips lingering on the rim of the glass.

"But tell me honestly, what would you have done if I had been?"

"Hm," hummed a thoughtful murmur against her cup. Fatine let the wine simmer on her tongue before lowering her glass and raising a dark brow.

"I guess we'll never know."

She decided that Cassian lived somewhere in the space between honest and playful. Murky waters, but ones she was intent on exploring with a smile that sat on the edge of mischievous.

"You have siblings, yes? You strike me as the older-brother type. Always so assured and calm," she said, rolling the wrist of her free hand. "It's annoying."

Perhaps that was how he managed to handle her childish attitude as well as he did. Fatine gave her glass a gentle swirl, peering down into the pale yellow liquid. The girl didn't know what she was looking for, only that the gesture looked sophisticated.

"However many you have, I've got you beat," she bragged. "I'm one of ten."

Cassian Abrantes

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

For just a heartbeat she said nothing, instead she just regarded him with that familiar half-smile; the kind that hinted she was thinking far more than she was saying. Then, quietly, she inclined her head.
“Then we have an agreement,” she said. “Help, without lectures. Survival, without sermons. And I’ll try to find something resembling fun in this place.”
Her tone carried that dryness, yet with Naboo grace, but it was softened by something more genuine. The corner of her mouth rose faintly. “You might be terrible company, Lorn, but at least you’re honest about it. That already makes you better than most in this room.”

She turned towards him properly. “As for training…” Her gaze moved up to meet his, calm but certain. “I won’t keep running from what I was meant to be.”

It wasn’t a vow, not yet; Bastila didn’t make those lightly anymore, but there was a quiet conviction in her voice, the kind that meant she intended to keep it.

Sensing that fate has run it’s due, she straightened and smoothed the folds of her gown with practiced grace. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a favor to return.”

Her mask caught the moonlight as she stepped away from the pillar, the shimmer of her gown rippling like liquid silver through the crowd.

She moved easily among the dancers, a shadow of elegance threading through the tide of color and laughter. The orchestra’s rhythm rose around her; soft strings that flowed from a crescendo of violins; and for a moment, she let herself feel the hum of life that filled the room.

Then she saw her.

Quinn Varanin; gold mask, still as a flame held behind glass. She was gliding across the floor with that unnerving calm that made the air around her seem thinner. Bastila slowed, the Force stirring faintly in her chest, It seemed to do that when proximity to certain individuals felt too much like gravity. Her fingers twitched against her side, telling of a silent battle inside between curiosity and restraint.

She was still watching when the world reasserted itself in the form of a solid shoulder.

Bastila stumbled one step back, catching herself, about to turn on the other party when she froze.

“Dominic.”

His name slipped out before she could catch it. It was only a whisper but the sound of it broke something in the air between them, sharp and fragile at once.

She hadn’t seen him since the Senate attack, and yet here he was, the crowd moving around them as though the galaxy hadn’t shifted at all.

Bastila’s breath caught, just enough to betray her surprise; before she pulled her poise back around her like a cloak. “Of course,” she murmured, voice calm and deliberate, clearly hiding her embarrassment. “Only I would manage to walk into someone in a room this size.”

The mask did its work, hiding the flicker in her expression. Her heart, however, hadn’t quite learned the same discipline.

The music swelled again, bright and unrelenting. The crowd unaware, as it always was that it was playing silent witness to another collision Bastila hadn’t planned to survive gracefully.

OUTFIT: XoXo | TAG: Lorn Reingard | Dominic Praxon | Quinn Varanin EQUIPMENT:

​

 

[Alina Grayson]

Objective: 2
Memorial Gardens

Alina’s hand met his without hesitation, the contact brief but anchored. There was no fanfare in the gesture only quiet understanding. Her fingers curled around his with the same ease she used to steady a blade or calm a frightened child. Intentional. Measured.

"You are very welcome.," she said softly, with a smile.

The archways gave way to the open hush of the gardens, and she let her senses stretch with each step. Not reaching outward in search, but listening. The ground here had stories. The trees whispered old names. Even the stones beneath their feet had known triumph and blood and the long, still years between.

Lanternlight caught at the edge of her features the faint shimmer of gold at her collar, the soft sheen of the pale fabric brushing her legs as she walked. Her presence did not demand attention, but it held it. A deliberate sort of grace, a woman not here to be seen, but who was never overlooked.

She glanced sidelong at Aiden, her expression thoughtful. "Masks hide what we protect. But sometimes… they let us see things more clearly. People get complacent in their anonymity. This is why so many favor these gatherings" Her eyes lingered on him for a heartbeat longer, then moved away to the trailing vines along a nearby wall. "For some it affords them some courage they might not otherwise have.”

Her steps slowed near the edge of a small reflecting pool. The surface shimmered with the night sky, lanterns floating like captive stars. She looked into it for a moment before speaking again.

"I don’t think peace is the illusion," she murmured. "I think it’s the hope that we can hold it without ever getting our hands dirty. But real peace the kind that lasts it’s never clean. It’s earned. Fought for. You and I both know that well. Still, I think that's enough philosophy for the evening."

She turned back to him, the distance between them measured in heartbeats, not paces. "Tonight is supposed to be for us to relax, we can debate the finer points political games another time."

TAG: Aiden Porte

 

[Corazona von Ascania]

Jorryn Fordyce

"Benevolent?"

The shape of Cora's smile curved on a knife's edge. Not that Jorryn could actually see the gesture, but the way her lips moved behind the glint of the back gem mask was unmistakable. "Ah, but the Dark isn't truly benevolent, is it? It's a promise draped in shadows. A ripe fruit with a bitter, poison core. A devil that wraps itself in pretty fabrics, cloaking its true nature in order to get what it wants."

On the next turn, Cora leaned in closer. Warm breath ghosted against the Echani's ear, her hand drawing up the woman's spine to linger against the back of her neck. Her voice, soft and knowing, was anything but gentle.

"And I think you know that, Atropa."

The way her tone elongated the woman's pseudonym would've been almost playful if it hadn't sounded like a verbal dagger. Slow and sharp, the sort that took its time digging into flesh, pleased with each bead of blood that would dribble along its edge.

Cora's hand traced the partial spiral of Jorryn's horn, and that was when it hit her. The scent of blood. Blue milk and iron turned sour in her stomach. Her hand stilled, and suddenly she stumbled back, swaying on her heels.

"I-I'm sorry, I-"

All traces of her earlier confidence evaporated as an intense way of nausea rolled over her. Normally, she would've excused herself in a more graceful manner, but it would've been far more rude to vomit on her dance partner – or all over the marble flooring.

"Excuseme!" she mumbled, skittering around couples while making a beeline for the nearest door.

Cora barely managed to wrestle the lattice of black crystals from her face before it could become another casualty. There, in the gardens, she lurched over and became ill behind the cover of a bush.

 

[Jael Amnen]

The collision came without warning.

Her heel caught on the marble, her weight shifted, and for an instant the world became a blur of silver fabric and startled breath. Jael fell, not hard, but with that strange, dreamlike gracelessness that made it feel somehow more real. The delicate mask that had concealed her eyes slipped away and spun across the polished floor, clattering once before coming to rest against the toe of a stranger’s boot.

Her first thought was not pain, but apology.

"Oh!" A soft gasp, followed quickly by a self-conscious laugh as she gathered herself. "I...how terribly clumsy of me."

Only then did her eyes rise to meet the man who had collided with her. His appearance struck her at once. He was unmistakably weary, as though carved from long nights and heavier thoughts. The burgundy of his eyes caught in the light, an ember’s glow beneath the masque of civility.

He held her fallen mask between two fingers, and something in the simplicity of the gesture, a man returning to her a piece of her own disguise, made the moment oddly intimate.

"Sorry ’bout tha’. Here."

She accepted it with a nod and the faintest curve of her lips.

"Then we are both forgiven, Mr...?" she ventured, her tone poised but not cold, curiosity softening her words. Her voice carried that practiced gentility Nocturnist high-born women cultivated like art. Her tone was measured, melodic, and entirely unbothered by the chaos of the fall.

Sliding the mask delicately back into place, she tilted her head, regarding him through the filigree lattice of silver.

"I do hope you are not in the habit of disarming women so literally."

The tease was gentle. But her gaze lingered, steady, the faintest thread of the Force stirring beneath her calm exterior, a quiet awareness that something about this man was far more than his rustic accent suggested.

Trayze Tesar​

 

[Dominic Praxon]

For a moment, Dominic said nothing. His hand had gone instinctively to his collar, thumb brushing the edge of a lapel that did not need adjusting. It gave him a second, enough to master his expression before he turned.

"Padawan Sal-Soren," he greeted, almost too formal, "it seems even a masquerade cannot dull your sense of timing."

The faintest smile passed across his face, diplomatic and brittle. Around them, laughter and music swelled as a stream of guests in gilded masks swept through the archway. A server droid paused nearby, offering a tray of fluted glasses. Dominic waved it away. He had not realized his pulse had quickened until the sound of his own voice steadied it again.

"You’ve been difficult to reach," he continued, tone light enough to pass for idle conversation. "Then again, perhaps that’s for the best. I imagine the Jedi are seldom in need of...correspondence."

He almost left it there. Almost.

"I had been trying to thank you personally. For what you did during the Senate attack." He lingered on the next words thoughtfully, examining her for a reaction to the name. "For saving Loria. And her father."

His gaze softened. The kind of change one felt rather than saw.

"You have my gratitude. Truly. It was..." His next word caught in his throat. "Bastila..."

The name escaped like a held breath released. Realization hit a heartbeat later. He drew himself upright, jaw tightening as though to erase the familiarity. "Forgive me. Force of habit," he amended smoothly, the tone restored to Senate polish. "...Padawan Sal-Soren."

A shadow crossed between them as another guest, masked in feathered gold, called over the music. "Senator Praxon! His Grace requests your presence in the east atrium!"

Dominic turned slightly but did not move. The aide at his side inclined her head expectantly.

"In a moment," he said without looking away.

Then, quieter, to Bastila. "It was good to see you alive. The galaxy has grown...poorer for those it lost that day. I may have won an election, but I feel like we all lost more than we yet understand."

He gave a measured nod, the perfect gesture of a man returning to composure. And yet, when he finally stepped past her, his gaze lingered, just long enough to betray that he would have preferred the conversation to continue.

Bastila Sal-Soren​

 

[Trayze Tesar]

CURRENT MISSION - The Masks We Must Wear
Immediate Goals -
1: Mandatory Fun Time
2: Stand there
2a: Look Pretty
2b: Stand there while looking pretty

---

BLUFOR - N/A

OPFOR - Enemy Unknown

TARGETING ACTION(S) - Jael Amnen || OPEN COMMS

---

The closest comparison one may compare to the Kiffar at this moment is perhaps a pensive urchin - or perhaps a display plasma ball who's arc reaches out to an excitable youngling's hand - shielded only by the film needed to prevent the coiling plasma from any awestruck child and leery adults. The Force, and energy, calls out to one another - but when two tendrils touched, there was an unseen scattering of dances - ebbing, flowing, evading, assessing.

She was good, and so was he.

"Mister Tesar, Trayze Tesar." he answered, offering a hand for either assistance or a brief handshake, a tired salaryman's smile. From the Nabooan Nocturnist's assessment, "Mister Tesar" was a man who obscured by using ludicrous truths. The wrinkles, postures, and subtle pops of limbs indicated that he indeed was a country bumpkin turned office worker - but between the psychometry slithering around his forearms and occasionally lancing her like a striking serpent, investigating rather than envenoming, he played to his more "common" background rather than him being solely Sith.

An overly ambitious and self-centered creature like a Dark Side User denigrating themselves to drudgery? Willingly? Unthinkable, too unthinkable for those who stereotype him. Indeed, the visage he had hoped to project to any Jedi or Force Sensitives was a Sith by affiliation - someone too old to be trained and too "low class" to be a Lord Among Sith.

What Miss Ammen intended to utilize with this understanding is up to her; for this was a battle waged on two and a half fronts - the overt, the atypical subtext of social gatherings, and the covert of the Force. Where he found one lacking, the other two would be pressed to regain ground:

"An' no, don' run into ladies out of habit - more outta... luck." a double entendre, one that can be construed as flirtation to those without the experienced eyes Jael Ammen and Trayze Tesar had: and the latter used truth in kind. He was out of luck - perhaps being outed - but perhaps he can regain that luck by demonstrating he wasn't a threat. Likewise, the slight edge of the tone indicates that the "ladies" he would disarm into were just as powerful as she, perhaps even moreso.

"Bein' arm in arm is normal in dances - yet Ah don' much see any armaments besides yer own eyes." the tone is a bit too thick, a bit too clownish, and a bit too socially awkward for those high minded - to deride him as a lecherous bumpkin rather than the eyes that flash around her body - arcane witchery, holdout weapons, comlinks, an eye trained not in the Force but by experience. "Were ya hopin' ta' disarm someone in kind?"

With a hammy waggle of the eyes, it seemed that the clowning served both to relax himself - to have genuine amusement at the ball - and to perhaps invoke any would-be-protectors early so he can assess in kind.

 

[Jorryn Fordyce]

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

---

---

The words fell casually from beneath the crystalline mask, an observation guided by a life lived in conflict with the dark. It was true, of course, the dark side was a carnivorous force, seeking to consume all around it in a bid only to sate its hunger. It was in that regard that Jorryn was much like her fellow, a softer smile confirming the blonde woman's words.

The Echani's body flexed as a lithe finger drew up the length of her spine, pushing against the Jedi's own as she felt the touch. It was not a move Jorryn expected, blush racing to her cheeks as the self amused smile fled her face. And as the woman leaned in close, breath racing against her features and a hand pulling her neck into the embrace, the Jedi voiced her suspicions.

"A passing similarity, I'm sure." Her tone betrayed a nervousness the Sith had never felt before, an internal curiosity if this was how she made her own prey feel. "Though one can not always get what they want can they."

The casual balance of intimacy and warning had begun to unweave, the woman's understanding of Jorryn's character unshrouded in the lights of the ballroom floor. Whatever mask she wore to this dance fell away under Corazona's whim, a life of conflict allowing her to demask the Echani in a way she hadn't anticipated.

The blush only reddened as the Jedi's hand caressed the curvature of her horn, finding herself unable to pull away from the touch. Jorryn hadn't allowed most people to touch her horns, but something about this woman made the Sith comfortable with the gesture. A sweet breath from the close distance only served to intoxicate her more.

Until something in the Jedi's face turned.

The Echani caught Corazona by the waist as she swayed, all pretence of flirtation and flattery escaping as a look of concern fell across her face. Perhaps it was something she ate, or all the milk she was drinking during the event. Either way, Jorryn's grasp was broken easily as the woman fled the dance floor in a panic, amber eyes watching as the woman fled.

A chase quickly ensued, a race towards the garden before Jorryn broke away towards the refreshment table to grab a glass of water for her partner. The look was something she recognised in the poor thing, and Jorryn was sure that no matter how it turned, the water would be appreciated. A napkin was taken as well in case it went poorly.

Evidently it had.

As the Echani broke the doors towards the garden, her eyes spotted the black lattice laid across a stone wall and it's bearer bent over next to the piece. The poor thing clearly had a momentary sickness, and Jorryn slowly crossed the stone floor towards Cora. A glass of water was offered to the woman as the Echani sat next to her, allowing for the moment to pass.

"Here you are dear, might be best to get this down."

As a lithe hand offered the drink, her amber eyes also caught upon the uncovered visage of her partner. Golden trusses fell across her face in disarray, loosened by the moment of panic as well as the unfastening of her mask. A scar marred the left side of her face, but it's existence only enhanced the woman in front of her.

Blue orbs still looked downwards in a rush, though they shined just as brightly as the had of the floor, and the soft curvature of her lips was stained by a streak of blue. Despite the circumstances, the Echani froze for a moment as she looked upon the Jedi, caught by the beauty that had been lying beneath that lattice.

"Let's clean you up, love. You'll be fine." A hand danced along the girl's chin, dragging her blue eyes to meet the Echani's. Quietly she wondered what had been the cause of the event. "I hope it was not the scent of my flower that caused this."

A soft smile crept along her face as she stared into Corazona's eyes, perhaps a moment too long before she pulled the cloth from her side.

"I'll be sure to refine that part before I send you a bouquet."

The hand removed itself from the woman's cheek and rested on Cora's thigh instead, leaning in close as the handkerchief raised towards the woman's chin. A streak of blue film still fell across her face after she washed the bile from her mouth, and the Echani carefully drew it away from her skin.

The distance between the pair closed as Jorryn cleansed her, before a soft touch drew across the Jedi's lip wiping the last of the film away. Even with her eyes shrouded, it would be clear the amber gaze of the Sith remained on the woman's lips. They flickered back to the blue orbs that rested against hers, a delicious distress in her gaze from the sickness.

And as the scent of honey remained on the Jedi and filled the air, Jorryn would give in to the sweetness for the moment. Pink lips pressed against the Jedi's in a kiss as she leaned in, lingering for awhile longer than a suitor's should. The former Lord Inquisitor tasted the bottom lip of her companion, hungrier in its passion than would ever be considered proper.

And that was if the woman hadn't already been married.

A hand caressed the chin of the blonde as her free hand softly tightened against the Jedi's porcelain thigh, pulling her in as they shared this moment.

But the Echani forgot herself and her mask in passion, a presence in the force delving beneath the skin of Corazona as it observed. The dark energy was impossible to hide, but there was a lack of malice that many Sith would be expected to carry. Instead, it sought to nurture. To investigate what afflicted the woman and how to fix it.

It would find the answer.

"Oh!" Pulling away from the woman, guilt would be plain across her face. A panic that she had completely misunderstood the afternoon. "I'm so sorry I didn't realise-"

Hands retreated from their quarry, falling back into her laps as the nervously intertwined.

She had overstepped.

 

[CT-312]

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

CT-312 watch as a hand was waved airily in her direction. Brows rose beneath the mask. She hadn’t expected that kind of response. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. It seemed there were at least a few who hadn't been hiding behind refined manners and carefully rehearsed grace. The Scout gave a small respectful nod in acknowledgment and took up position by the wall at a considerate distance. Her posture remained sharp and forward-facing. Eyes continued toward the open floor, taking silent inventory of the Grand Hall.

A particular figure stood out in the crowd. A man with pale pink hair, close to both the Princess and the Empress. Particularly the Empress. Their body language spoke of familiarity. Soon another man approached. Bowing low before extending a hand toward the Princess. CT-312 deduced he was asking for a dance. Her attention lingered just long enough to note the exchange before moving on. Ears turned to the ebb and flow of laughter, footsteps, and orchestral rhythm. Absorbing this strange glittering environment of ‘high society’. A different kind of terrain entirely. CT-312 turned her head back towards the familiar figure at the response.

Behind the mask, CT-312 studied the redhead’s tone and body language. The honesty in the woman’s voice. Blunt and unfiltered, stood out in a way against all the politeness. ‘Blight?’ The infected on Bro–? Her mind caught on. ‘Ah. Wordplay.’ Understanding. Even though she dressed for the part, CT-312 still felt the same dissonance. This wasn’t her world. Still, there was value in observation. A new field to study. Another form of discipline to learn. Perhaps this was a test from the Princess? To see if she could blend into a place where her usual armor and skills were useless. Mask angling back towards the Grand Hall.

CT-312’s mouth opened, about to answer honestly but caught herself. It wouldn’t be wise to explain her true purpose here. Masquerades were about mystery, weren’t they? Even so, the irony wasn’t lost on her. Some of the attendees' masks were as effective as a visor with their name engraved on it. The Princess’s mask, as elegant as it was… effective in concealing one’s identity? Debatable. It was indeed a ‘mask’ nonetheless. CT-312 could feel the Princess’s gaze brush over her from across the room. A brief glance, but unmistakable. Blue eyes followed, as the Princess led her partner through the first steps of their dance before allowing him to take the lead. CT-312 blinked twice, refocusing at the given name of the redheaded figure. ‘Reina.’ That name struck a chord. Recognition fell into place. A name on one of the dossiers, a familiar presence. The Scout remembered her from before— Rodia, a night club. A fleeting interaction with the Princess. Noting Reina’s demeanor has changed since then.

“Excuse?” CT-312 paused. Deciding on how much to offer. A soft brief exhale slipped through her mask’s modulator. A sound that could almost pass for a restrained laugh. What was it they say?... “Guess you could say my excuse is being a 'little extra insurance'.” Briefly looking back at the open hall, scanning the crowd as she continued, tone even with quiet understanding. “The feeling’s mutual, that sense of being a ‘blight’. These halls have a way of making people feel out of place.” A subtle shift in her stance. “Training...” CT-312 echoed sounding thoughtfully. “Training does seem a bit more appealing right now. What is it that you do best? What kind of training, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Manners, the Scout reminded herself once more. CT-312 faced properly towards Reina, her right hand moved over her chest. A small polite measured bow, “You can call me Rook.” The alias rolled easily off her tongue. “A pleasure to meet you, Reina.” Positioning herself once more facing towards the open room. Dry amusement brushed the tone of her words “Though I’ll admit, this ‘battlefield’ has better lighting than what I’m used to.”

 

[Corazona von Ascania]

It had all happened so quickly. Too quickly.

One moment, she was dancing with a beautiful woman, their playful banter slipping onto the knife's edge of flirting. Cora could never resist a good mystery, especially when it came wrapped in such an alluring package - it was the woman's Dark natured that she wanted to uncover and assess, parsing her out as either friend or foe.

She hadn't meant any harm, figuring that they'd say their farewells after the dance ended, then go their separate ways. A story for her to lazily recount to Makko Vyres as they settled into bed.

Now, she had her back pressed to the decorative stone wall as Jorryn wiped her lips and chin and helped her drink water. Cora tried to blink the haze from her eyes as the soft cloth wiped away blue streaks. The fact that her dance partner had followed her out to the garden barely even registered, much less the fact that the Echani was looking after her.

It was as if everything had moved at light speed during her escape from the ballroom, and now it was all so impossibly slow. Her thoughts waded through molasses as she focused on catching her breath. Embarrassment was beginning to seep over her like moonlight creeping along her skin.

Jorryn's lips chased the bashfulness away, and replaced it with shock.

Cora froze, utterly still. Being kissed hadn't been a real possibility in her mind, even as her frazzled nerves struggled to register the sensation of being fed Jorryn's hunger, of the soft hand gripping her thigh. Heat flooded her cheeks and bled down her neck, seeping beneath her skin as her body responded to something that was both familiar and wholly unique.

Stunned, she didn't kiss the Echani back, but she didn't pull away, either. Not until the white haired woman recoiled, having realized her mistake.

The apology came too late. Or maybe it didn't. Either way, Cora's hand was already in motion.

Slap!

The palm of her hand connected with the woman's cheek, and Cora, slightly dizzy, stumbled back either from the recoil or the shock.

"I am not that sort of woman," she hissed, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. "And I do not have that sort of marriage!"

Ashla, how had things progressed like this? Cora sent a hand to haphazardly smooth blonde locks back from her flushed face, only now aware that whatever mysteries her mask had hid were null and void.

A few beats passed as her thoughts sped to catch up with her actions. The other woman seemed embarrassed at her misstep, and Cora's hand still stung from where she'd struck her. The guilt she felt twined itself with the uncomfortable way her lips buzzed from being kissed by someone softer and more feminine than she'd been used to.

"Look, I…" she trailed, letting out a huff as her gaze sought anything that wasn't Jorryn - the well trimmed line of a hedge, the gentle glow of lantern light, even the puddle of blue bile at the base of a bush.

"It's not you that caused this. Not wholly. I'm just…"

Why did this feel like revealing a deep secret? Cora's belly fluttered as her hands found her abdomen, cradling the plane of her stomach almost protectively, reverently. Soon, it wouldn't be something that she could easily hide.

"I'm pregnant. Sometimes certain smells just…set me off, is all."

Jorryn Fordyce

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

The name had come out of her mouth before she’d even decided to speak. It was too quick, very far from deliberate. If he could hear her pulse it would have given her true mind away.
He turned, and for a breath she forgot where she was. The light caught in the gold trim of his collar, the reflection of chandeliers rippling across his shoulder, and all at once she was back in his family's study; the harsh words, the silence that followed, the way she’d reached for him, the way that they had…

Padawan Sal-Soren. So that is how it is going to be.

“I’ve been difficult to reach. Jedi business rarely comes with convenient correspondence.” A shrug, effortless. “It ruins the mystique.”

Then he said Loria.

Bastila’s breath hitched. Her throat tightened around words she didn’t mean to swallow. The sound of the ballroom dimmed and the music fading into an echo, the laughter thinning into static. “You’re welcome,” she said finally, voice lower now.

Then he spoke her name, Bastila, it felt like a hand closing around her chest. The way he said it was too familiar, all together human, and more then dangerous. The kind of thing she’d spent months pretending she no longer missed. It wasn’t the name itself, it was his voice saying it.

And then he corrected himself.

Padawan.

The switch to titles hit like a cold blade between ribs, aimed right at her heart. Her smile froze, elegant but hollow, the mask doing the rest of the work to hide the slip. The word Padawan carried everything she’d just admitted to trying to leave behind, the constant reminder that she was still “learning,” still “becoming.” Even here, among silk and gold and music, she was reduced to the one thing the galaxy allowed her to be: the student.

For half a heartbeat, the urge surged through her wild, it was reckless and she found it slightly humiliating that it was even there. She wanted to close the distance, to grab his sleeve, to drag him back into the space where they didn’t need titles or excuses. To demand that he not call her that. To make him remember she was more than that.

Her hand twitched at her side, fingers flexing once before she mastered herself again.

The aide’s voice saved them both: “Senator Praxon! His Grace requests your presence in the east atrium!”

Dominic turned, the practiced elegance of a man returning to duty. Bastila could have let him go then. She should have. But the word caught in her throat and tore itself free before reason could stop it.

“Wait...”

He turned back.

Her hand was half-raised, as though she meant to reach for him, and she froze in that motion, caught between impulse and dignity. The air between them tightened like wire.

“I…” She blinked, forced a thin, nervous laugh. “I didn’t mean… Only to…” The words scattered, impossible to gather. She breathed out, regrouped. “It’s been some time. I just…need a second.”

The lie was elegant, but her voice betrayed her.

She drew a breath, steadied her posture. “I wanted to thank you,” she said softly. “For what you said. I’m glad you are safe.” Her eyes met his; too long, too inviting, before she broke the contact and looked toward the dance floor.

“You look well,” she added, tone drifting toward composure again. “Politics suits you. Even if it does make you sound really rehearsed.”

Her lips curved faintly, a flicker of her old humour. “You better go. Can’t be leaving Aurelian waiting. He’ll think I’ve done something to you. We wouldn’t want another diplomatic incident.”

He hesitated, she noticed it, of course he did; and for that one pause, the world shrank down to the space between them, fragile and burning. The air of the force swelling around them, noticeable only to her.

When he finally turned to leave, Bastila didn’t move. She just stood there, the silk of her gown brushing faintly against the marble, her hand still hanging at her side, fingers curled against the ache.

The music roared back to life. Applause, laughter, gold light. All of it felt distant.

Only when his silhouette disappeared into the crowd did she exhale, quietly, as if releasing something she’d been holding since the day they’d last spoken.

Her mask caught the light as she turned, the shimmer disguising the tremor in her hands.

“Dominic,” she murmured to herself, almost a scoff. “Please stay.”

Then she drew in a breath, straightened, and stepped back into the masquerade; her smile fixed, her eyes cold, and her pulse still betraying her.

OUTFIT: XoXo | TAG: Dominic Praxon EQUIPMENT:

​

 

[Aiden Porte]

Alina Grayson
​

Aiden’s hand lingered in hers for the briefest instant longer than formality required a reflex born not of hesitation, but acknowledgment. There was something grounding in her touch, something real amid the artifice of masks and murmured names. When she released him, he let the moment settle between them like a quiet breath.

As Alina spoke, he listened without interruption, his gaze following the curve of the path and the faint reflection of lanternlight rippling across the water. Her words carried weight, not just insight, but the kind of conviction forged by experience. When she paused, he finally met her eyes, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.

“Hope.” he said quietly, “It's the strongest of feelings” His tone was light, merely reflective. “You’re right, peace isn’t clean. It’s fragile because it depends on people who are willing to keep choosing it, even when the cost grows heavy.”

He stepped closer to the reflecting pool, looking down at their mirrored shapes framed by drifting lanterns. “Every place has its scars.” he continued, glancing around at the memorial blossoms swaying faintly in the night breeze. “The difference is whether we hide them, or let them grow into something worth remembering.”

For a time, he said nothing more. The wind shifted, carrying the scent of the gardens and a faint thread of music from the ballroom. His posture eased, shoulders relaxing as his eyes found hers again, softer now, less Knight, more man.

“You’re right.” he said after a quiet moment, his voice low but warm. “Enough philosophy. I’ll try to remember this is meant to be a celebration.”

He extended his hand again, though not out of ceremony this time, just an unspoken offer. “Walk with me, then. No debates, no duty. Just the sound of lanterns and the illusion of peace.” The faintest hint of humor colored his tone, but beneath it, something gentler lingered a rare willingness to be still, to let the moment breathe unguarded.

"Perhaps, you can tell which of these is your favorite flower. And I may or may not come with something clever and inspirational about it." He said with a small tease, and a easy smile on his face.