Private &nbsp; Throne of Perfume and Blood

Kyric · Jun 18, 2025

Twelve hours prior to Aurelian Veruna's arrival to Parrlay Prison...

Six strangers stalked the streets of Parrlay's Low Market. They carried themselves with the confidence found in local peasants who knew nothing more than the confines of their insulated cities, neither brave or wealthy enough to see the greater galaxy. But these men were no peasants, nor did they care for the likes of Parrlay. Their personas were carefully crafted for their infiltration. Silk selected exclusively from local markets masked non-descript garments of black and gray. Shoulder holsters housed elicit blaster pistols and vibro-knives sat poised and ready within indiscernible boot-sheaths.

There was blood in the water—Kyric Karis' blood—and these sharks had no intention of letting their mark escape.

They waited patiently for Kyric to stumble out of the Port of Glass and into the city proper.

Though the young Jedi bore scars of his time in an imperial prison, Kyric's presence had not diminished. He moved with the grace of a dancer and spoke with the authority of a seasoned general. If not for the long blade sheathed at his side, or the ragged attire carefully stitched together via bandages and duct-tape, he may have slipped away from his assailants and escaped elsewhere into the city. But there was no mistaking one of Darth Solipsis' most wanted.

Kyric felt them coming like an encroaching storm. Hatred oozed off the six, intermingling with a killer's intent that could put an Acolyte to shame. They herded the lone Jedi and his tiny ward with the ferocity of wolves on the hunt. No matter where the Jedi turned, he felt them adjust face and follow suit.

"This ain't good," Kyric mumbled to the echani child walking alongside him.

The boy, Xenith, looked up at Kyric and tilted his head to the side. Xenith's brilliant golden gaze found Kyric's single blue eye and he inquired not with words, but feelings, as to what the Jedi meant.

"We're bein' followed. Six men. Not sure who or why, really," Kyric explained calmly. He scooped up Xenith and turned from an alleyway onto a larger thoroughfare of the market. "I gotta find us somewhere to hunker d-"

A blaster bolt erupted from a rooftop two dozen paces ahead of them. Red plasma thudded uselessly against the streets as Kyric swept Xenith aside, placing himself between the boy and danger.

Screams erupted throughout the market as nearby citizens raced away from the altercation.

"Give it up, Karis!" the shooter called. "Do as we say and we'll let the kid walk."

"Nah, I'm good!" Kyric called back. "Y'all can still walk away, though!"

Two men charged from nearby stalls. One threw himself at Kyric's legs in an effort to trap him, while the other raised their vibro-knife and drove it down toward the Jedi's neck.

Kyric raced for the shooter instead.

The closest attackers pivoted after Kyric and gave chase. The shooter leveled his blaster rifle and fired another shot aimed for the kiffar's chest. Three others dove behind a landspeeder to Kyric's right, drew their blaster pistols, and unleashed a flurry of wild shots that all uselessly flew wide.

Resolute exploded into action as Kyric squeezed the trigger built into the sheath and a sound like thunder echoed throughout the market. The blade sliced the bolt in half, which soared past Kyric and slammed into the two men only a few dogged steps behind him. Kyric caught the blade before it was lost to him, planted a foot firmly on the ground, and actually threw his sword like a poorly-weighted javelin at the rooftop shooter.

The weapon sunk to the hilt in the man's chest and he stumbled off the rooftop. His body slammed wetly into the street to a chorus of broken bones as the three remaining attackers stared slack-jawed.

Kyric thrust his hand forward and a telekinetic wave lifted the speeder up and over them, before it splatted them like bugs beneath its bulk.

"Huh..." Kyric blinked in surprise. He didn't expect the fight to end so suddenly. "That was mighty lucky, if I do say so my-"

"Hands up!"

From a nearby street, a squadron of armed security officers hurried to intercept Kyric. Much like his attackers, Parrlay's police force, whoever they may be, led with the threat of violence in the form of sleek, Naboo weaponry.

"Well fuck me," Kyric groaned and raised the hand not currently wrapped around Xenith. "I surrender."

Prison... Again.

The sound of approaching footsteps pulled Kyric from his quiet meditations. His one good eye settled on the squatting man with the same indifference Kyric reserved for stormtroopers during his last stint in the box.

"Afternoon," the stranger began, his handsome features alight with scarcely contained machinations. "I don't suppose you're the murdering, smuggling, no-regrets type with just enough self-control not to stab the guy paying you?"

Kyric opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again in an effort not to say something stupid. He still didn't know what happened to his ward, Resolute, or the one article of clothing the kiffar couldn't replace; his father's poncho.

"Would you like to earn your freedom?" he asked, almost too casually for a man standing in the middle of prison. "And a sum of credits substantial enough to put a permanent dent in your list of poor life choices?"

When he leaned in closer, Kyric mirrored the gesture. He wanted to appear the part of a trapped, yet hopeful criminal too naïve to realize he was staring down a starving vornskr.

"All I require is that you be dangerous, discreet, and slightly less stupid than you look. Can you manage that?"

"I reckon I can do that," Kyric answered weakly. "You can keep yer credits, though. I want what I arrived with. My sword, poncho, and the boy."

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Aurelian Veruna |

Aurelian Veruna · Jun 18, 2025

Aurelian didn't blink.

That was the first clue Kyric wasn't dealing with some garden-variety silver-spoon. The young noble just stood there, crouched with the lazy poise of someone who enjoyed games with sharp stakes. Like sabacc played in a burning house. He studied Kyric the way someone might study a vibro-knife they found in a painting, intrigued, cautious, maybe a little delighted.

"Your sword. Your poncho. And the boy," Aurelian repeated, tone measured, eyes sharp. He rose smoothly, brushed imaginary dust from his sleeve, and exhaled through his nose like a man cataloguing every headache in his life.

"Well," He turned and began to pace in front of the cell. "The sword's in lockup, collecting dust. The poncho is, regrettably, folded in my father's study like some kind of historical curiosity. He thinks it might be tribal." A dry smile. "He's wrong, of course. He always is."

He stopped pacing and turned to face Kyric directly. "As for the boy… he's alive, unbruised, and currently eating something better than the paste they serve down here." A sly smile. "I made sure of that."

Aurelian stepped closer to the shield, voice lowering. "But he stays with me. For now."

He raised a hand before Kyric could protest. "Security, not cruelty. I need your full cooperation."

He paused, a space left deliberately unsaid. Aurelian didn't fill it. He just looked at the man through the barrier with that same smirk: charming, teeth slightly bared, like a politician debating whether to kiss your hand or cut it off.

"I saw the footage," he added finally, almost idly. "Your little street ballet. The flips, the sword, the speeder. Very theatrical. I was torn between hiring you or suing you for property damage."

He tapped his finger against his lips. "But here's what I'm offering again, since we're being generous: you get your gear, your freedom, and when the job's done, the boy walks out of my estate clean, happy, and with a pocket full of credit chits he'll need two hands to carry."

He leaned in, eyes narrowing just enough to cut through the veil of charm. "Or you can rot here in the dark while whoever sent those six comes back with twelve."

He let that settle in.

"Your choice. But I suggest you make it quickly. I'm terribly impatient, and my dinner's getting cold upstairs."

Kyric |

Kyric · Jun 18, 2025

It took Kyric all of ten seconds to realize Aurelian had him outmatched on every front. Information flowed freely to the man in such a way that Kyric suspected connections to deeply entrenched crime syndicates, or more likely, a noble family. The mention of Aurelian's 'father,' along with an estate, and the offer of credits, credits, credits all but confirmed the latter choice, though the imprisoned Jedi knew it did not disqualify the former.

With each pause Aurelian entertained, Kyric bit his tongue. He had precious little time to discern the nature of whatever deal his visitor offered. And the last thing the kiffar wanted was to end up in another prison on the other side of the planet.

"I'd call it a tough choice, but I'd be lyin'," Kyric admitted after the briefest pause he was willing to brave. "And I've never been any good at that." He climbed to his feet and approached the bars. Every fiber of his being screamed to hold out hope and deny the deal, but two years of hard labor in an Imperial labor camp, alongside an inordinate amount of time under a scalpel had tempered the hot-streak that once dominated his decision making.

If Aurelian wanted Kyric to waste away and die in this prison, he knew help would never come.

"If you're gonna double-cross me, all I ask is you stay true to your word concernin' Xenith. He lost both his parents in an attack on Cademimu V and the kid deserves better."

Kyric reached up to push back greasy, unwashed strands of chocolate brown from his face. The vertical scar which cut through otherwise handsome features scarcely vanished since first received. It maintained an angry red color that clashed with his remaining cerulean eye, giving the younger man a severe expression more fit for a hardened Darth.

"You've got yerself a deal, stranger. When're we gettin' started?"

A shiver ran down the kiffar's spine as he caught a glimpse—no—a flash of the man behind the mask. And Kyric couldn't say he liked what he saw.

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Aurelian Veruna |

Aurelian Veruna · Jun 21, 2025

Aurelian didn't respond immediately. He watched Kyric with the kind of interest usually reserved for volatile substances or rare art, both beautiful and likely to explode. When Kyric finally offered his scarred hand of trust, Aurelian gave a slow, approving nod.

"Don't worry," he said, that damned smile curling again. "I won't double-cross you." He stepped forward, close enough that his shadow overlapped with the Kiffar's on the cell floor. "Not this time, anyway." There was a flicker, something sharp and alive in Aurelian's gaze as he said it. Not quite a threat. Not quite not a threat.

"As for Xenith," he went on, voice lower now, "he's safe. Tucked in a room with more pillows than a Senator's mistress. He'll live like royalty until your job is done. You have my word."

Then his eyes lingered. The scar. The one that carved down Kyric's face like a warning someone else had left behind. Aurelian stared, unabashed, and something in his expression shifted, curiosity, maybe. Not pity. Never pity. More like he was filing away a detail for later use. But he pushed past it.

"You'll be shadowing a noble. Sibylla Ynez Abrantes," he said, handing over a small holovid projector. A soft blue glow flickered to life between them, revealing Sibylla in the middle of a speech at the Assembly, voice steady, posture perfect, charisma bleeding from her like perfume. "Young, ambitious, terrifyingly earnest. She thinks she can save Naboo. It's adorable."

He clicked it off and tucked it into Kyric's hands, along with a slim credit stick. "That's for food. Supplies. Bribes, if you're boring. Whatever you need." He stepped back, gesturing vaguely toward the cell door as it hissed open behind him. "You'll sleep when she's surrounded. Work when she's most vulnerable. Keep your eyes sharp at night, because that's when it's coming."

His tone flattened. "A Noghri." He let that word settle, like poison on the tongue.

"When?" A shrug. "Could be tomorrow. Could be a week. But it's coming. And you'll be the first, and last, line of defense."

He moved past Kyric now, just enough to toss the poncho toward him without ceremony. The fabric fluttered down into Kyric's grasp like an old memory. "Don't worry," Aurelian said again. "I'll be watching."

Then his voice dropped, almost fond. "You won't be able to contact me, of course. But I'll always know where you are." A brief pause of silence, just long enough to feel it. Then a wink. "Tracking thread. Sewn into the hem. Call it Noble paranoia."

He turned and began walking away, the clicking of his boots echoing through the corridor like a metronome winding down.

"Go now. It's a long way to Theed. And royalty waits for no one."

Kyric |

Sibylla Abrantes · Jun 21, 2025

Rori Museum of Natural History
Items: x x x x x

Kyric

The gala was in full swing beneath the arched ceilings and hanging lanterns of the Rori Museum of Natural History. A harmony of cultured laughter and orchestral strings drifted through the towering gallery halls like incense. Polished marble floors gleamed, reflecting the flicker of chandeliers above fossilized shells and ancient stone tablets from Naboo's past. Every gesture, every word tonight was part of the carefully orchestrated steps in the long winding waltz of politics for one objective only.

To become the Sovereign of Naboo.

Sibylla carefully moved through the crowd with practiced grace, every inch the image of a noblewoman of Naboo's noble bloodlines that was expected of her -- expected of an Abrantes.

She wore a silvery, iceblue gown embroidered with delicate Nabooan florals, and with every step, the beautiful spidersilk fabric caught the museum's overheald golden lights. On her head was an intricate headdress of silver chains and crystal beads that framed her face and crowned her flowing chestnut hair to the middle of her back. As she walked, the curious gaze of ambassadors, artists, offworld donors, and even hesitant peers of neutral Houses followed, some still pondering whether to pledge their banners and endorsements. Others already considering what to lobby in favor of their interests should Sibylla become Queen.

All the while, Sibylla smiled -- she always smiled.

A subtle nod here. A deft pivot of conversation there. She parried inquiries about tariffs and educational reforms with the same precision as a vibrofencer. But her mind was restless, always moving. And when the melody of a distant harp touched the air with a soft, yearning melody...something inside her pulled taut.

She couldn't stay inside another minute.

"Only a moment," she told her attendants softly, touching her assistant's arm with a reassuring smile. "I promise, no more than that."

They understood, well at least they pretended to.

Sibylla found herself stepping beyond the glass paneled doors to the rooftop terrace, her gown gently whispering with each step she took. The air out here was cooler, brisk. Enough to provide a fresh breath away from the perfumed introductions and careful scrutiny. As she made her way to the rooftop terrace railing, a vision of the scene before her bloomed. All around her, the night sky gently blanketed the capital city of Narmle in silvered light, its glowing spires framing the dark emerald weave of Rori's jungle beyond.

It was then that SIbylla let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding.

Swallowing hard, she dipped her head, the moonlight catching on her headdress like silvered stars. She studied her hands, seeing how they trembled ever so slightly. Not from fear. But from the sheer weight of it all -- Of duty. Of the murmurs whispered in her absence. Of the memory of a certain melody she could not quite unhear.

Another breath, and she lifted her head, straightening her posture. But all the while, her hazel eyes seemed distant and thoughtful.

But she was not alone.

In the shadow of the rooftop archway, a figure lay crouched down with predatory stillness, nearly indistinguishable from the stone as it watched Sibylla. It was a Nogrhi, Veruna's assassin. He was cloaked in black and hiding perfectly in the shadows, having stealthily trailed her scent with the precision of a bloodhound through the maze of bodies and perfumed air inside the museum.

The scent of Abrantes.

Old blood. Blood marked by Remus Veruna for termination.

He had waited patiently, his eyes unblinking, his presence seemingly unnoticed by the guards still stationed inside, their attention too focused on the gala and members within. An advantage he fully intended to take, the Noghri quietly moving forward, intending to strike.

Kyric · Jun 22, 2025

A week shadowing Sibylla Abrantes was all Kyric needed to determine this particular noble was vulnerable most hours of the day.

Since declaring her intentions to run for Queen, the young Abrantes began what felt like a planetary wide tour of every city available to her. She paid homage to the culture she so clearly held close to her heart. Be it Theed or Narmle, Naboo or her moons, Sibylla carried herself with the dignity and courage Kyric came to expect from a seasoned warrior—not a prim and proper princess. But politics were an unfamiliar battlefield to the Jedi Knight; one he knew better than to underestimate.

Fortunately, her chosen guardians were competent enough in the day to day. They understood the dangers invited upon Sibylla from the moment she put in her bid for Queen. Each and every soldier within her retinue was experienced; veterans of one—and in some cases, more—of the many catastrophes visited upon the Naboo in recent years.

If not for them, the kiffar wouldn't have slept a wink since his arrival to Theed.

Had the circumstances been different, Kyric may have enjoyed his travels across Naboo. Big puffy clouds drifted lazily across the sky most days, carried on a crisp breeze that breathed life into him after even the most grueling shifts. The rolling plains of grass reminded him of his tiny abode back on Weik, providing a sense of familiarity where he expected to find none.

But such a blessing went unreceived by the likes of the Jedi Knight.

On the night of the Gala, Kyric found himself huddled under the shadow of a domed roof atop the Rori Museum of Natural History. His single eye swept across the distant horizon, decorated by an endless jungle that stretched from north to south; as far as the evening sky permitted him to see.

Kyric gently traced the edge of Resolute through its red-black sheath. His mind began to drift as it always did when left to its own devices.

The distant jungle vanished; the tall, gnarled trees replaced with impossibly high starscrapers as flat as the horizon line. Explosions ripped through the duracrete of one such structure. The rubble crashed down the streets below, where those trapped between the lower levels of Coruscant and the encroaching army above were dashed away in a spray of crimson.

A single figure stood alone atop a starscraper rooftop.

The kiffar didn't so much as look at them, so focused was he on his desperate race to reach the woman he called his mother. It was a mistake Kyric faced whenever he caught his reflection staring back at him.

Within the twilight where reality met memory, a broad smile slowly cut through the darkness.

Kyric stared down at what he logically knew to be an exterior balcony along the western side of the museum—far away from the war-torn streets of Coruscant. But the specter of death staring up at him was none other than Creuat, the Dark Jedi Master avowed to capture the Son of the Sword and drag him back to Solipsis—dead if needs must.

The Jedi squeezed his eye shut and shook his head.

When next Kyric opened his eye, Fisto was gone. The balcony stood empty of all but Lady Abrantes. No guards stood at her side; no guests petitioned the would-be Queen for aid. Yet, the sense of danger which permeated Kyric's mind did not relent. He found his attention fixated on the singular pool of shadow where he approximated Creuat to have stood within the memory.

The smile hadn't vanished, no. It grew larger. The sharpened fangs of a predator was Kyric's only warning as an unseen assailant cut across the balcony toward Sibylla.

Yer shittin' me.

Kyric dashed across the rooftop in total silence. He dropped from above. The wind whipped his weathered poncho about in a flurry that announced his arrival a split-second before force-infused steel slid quietly from its padded sheath.

The Noghiri heard the Jedi's descent and threw itself back from a strike intended to sever the creature's head from its shoulders. It snarled like a beast and flexed impressively sharp claws in the soft glow of the stars above. Thickly-packed muscle heaved as the would-be assassin reared backs its head and inhaled a deep breath of the kiffar's aroma.

"Fel," the assassin snarled.

"More like jumped, really," Kyric answered, his back to Sibylla. "M'lady, stay behind me."

"Foolish boy," the Noghiri spit. "Run away and hide like the rest of your doomed dynasty. I've come to claim my destiny." The alien pointed a single claw at Sibylla, its toothy maw widening in a cruel smile. "Come, child. When I'm through with you, history will have forgotten you as quickly as you appeared."

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Sibylla Abrantes · Jun 23, 2025

Rori Museum of Natural History
Items: x x x x x

Kyric

Sibylla didn't see him. Didn't hear him. Not even the faintest tug of danger stirred the air with how quickly the Noghri moved, nothing to signal the predator already closing in.

Until the wind shifted.

A whisper of fabric and the flurry of a poncho, then the unmistakable sound of steel clashing. Sibylla's breath caught in her throat, and her heart jumped painfully in her chest as her head whipped toward the sound, the silver beads of her headdress flailing with the faintest jingle as her hazel eyes widened in shock.

No more than a few paces from her was a blur of violence with claws, teeth, and deadly intent. She'd never seen a Noghri before, but Siyblla didn't need to know that he was a danger to her and a lethal one at that.

She took an instinctive step back, nearly stumbling over the hem of her dress. Panic stabbed through her like shards of ice, but not just fear but alarm. Trained alarm. If there was one, there could be another. That was the lesson of every assassination her family had survived.

Never assume the first is the last.

She cursed herself, furious even as she scanned the shadows for movement.

She should have known better.

Her father's voice seemed to echo in her ears, low and exasperated from too many arguments about protocol.

You cannot afford to be alone. Not now. Not ever.

Cassian said it in fewer words but with a lot more intensity, going to great lengths to protect her and make sure she was okay.

You won't see it coming. They don't want you to.

And tonight? They'd been right.

The moment she slipped away for air, just for a breath, just to think without worrying about playing the part that was expected of her, was the moment someone had marked her for blood.

And Sibylla wasn't trained for this.

Cassian had tried. Their father had ordered tutors. But Sibylla? Sibylla had focused on her studies and externships, which resulted in her terrible blaster aim. She commented that while she may not have the knack of hitting a fly at 500 meters, she could at least do some general damage if she took her time to aim. Fencing had been another attempt at learning, but she never trained to actually fight in a combat environment with it. For all her jokes regarding

Lysander von Ascania 's fencing posture, she had never truly fought hand-to-hand for her survival.

Every time she'd been at death's door, it had been Lysander who had saved her.

But he wasn't here -- and he certainly wasn't to blame for that.

Either way, whoever had shouted m'lady, whoever stood between her and the Noghri was a stranger dressed in what could only be deemed as hobo clothing, as if he had wandered right off a backwater spaceport rather than a Museum or an Abrantes guard. And a stranger could just as easily be a second assassin.

Sibylla didn't stop to ask. She didn't wait to learn.

Her hands grabbed at her skirts, and then she ran. If she could make it to the terrace doors, make it close enough to call security. But before she knew it, the Noghri reacted, having read her body language as one trained as he would.

There was a hiss, a sharp rake of claws, and then the rapid thump of four limbs launching into motion as he gave chase, the Noghri dropping on all fours like a beast unleashed, charging after her with a speed that shattered thought. His mouth split in a toothy grin, fully enjoying this. The chase. The terror. The promise of a kill.

Sibylla didn't dare look back.

She just continued running.

Then the world jerked.

A clawed hand caught her hair, yanking back the chestnut tresses with brutal force. Pain exploded across her scalp, whitehot and blinding as her scream ripped from her throat.

Kyric · Jun 25, 2025

The rustle of fabric and the click-clack of heeled shoes on the stone terrace echoed loudly across the night as the queen-to-be raced away from safety.

Kyric cursed his luck.

The doorway—and now Sibylla—floated out somewhere in the darkness of the kiffar's blindside. He fought the urge to chase his charge and dashed forward at the Noghiri, instead. The creature outpaced the Jedi with little trouble; unburdened by the limitations of the Force, the noghiri relied solely on a powerful body honed over a lifetime of the hunt. It cleared the gap and latched onto Sibylla's flowing hair with an inhuman strength that stopped her in her tracks—painfully so, if her scream was any indication.

Master Ashina's words echoed in Kyric's mind at the sight of blood trickling down Sibylla's mousy tresses.

Hesitation is defeat.

Kyric slid his blade back in its sheath and diverted course again. He dashed out to the noghiri's left and rounded on the pair like a living shadow. Thunder ripped through the night as the kiffar squeezed the trigger mechanism built into Resolute's sheath. The blade burst into motion and Kyric's poncho flared out around him. Two powerful jets of flame were expelled from the tiny vents carved at the base of the slugthrower and the Atrisian blade arched in a rising crescent.

The kiffar held firm to the sword. Every muscle, joint, and ligament strained under the pressure along his arm and into his upper back. He gritted his teeth, his singular eye locked on the screaming woman before him. Her pain, intertwined with lingering shame and rapidly rising fear, echoed louder in the Jedi's mind than even the bullet.

Resolute sliced painlessly through Sibylla's hair.

Kyric took the hilt in both hands at the apex of his swing and chopped down with every intention to permanently disarm the assassin. The noghiri pulled back out of range and turned on Kyric. Flexing claws the size of daggers, the alien lurched forward and set upon the Jedi Knight with eye-blurring strikes. The kiffar lifted the sword in an awkward parry, catching and diverting the attack, but not without cost. The noghir blew through the guard with his second strike, then carved a bloody groove down Kyric's chest with the same hand.

"Argh," Kyric bit back a scream and drove his palm into the alien's flat nose. A wave of telekinetic energy carried the noghiri up and over the railing, but the kiffar didn't think for a second that was the end of it. He shifted back to Lady Abrantes and scooped her up with all the decorum of a man raised between the filth-strewn streets of Denon and mud-covered hills of Concord Dawn.

"Sorry, ma'am," Kyric managed mid-wince. "I ain't kidnappin' you, but I can't let you die, neither." He shouldered his poncho over the bloody stain on his chest and positioned her atop it. "Hold on tight."

The Jedi breathed deeply. Pain drifted away, buried behind the budding warmth in Kyric's chest caused not by his precious lifeblood, but the ever-welcome presence of the Force as it coiled around them both. Without further warning, they soared twenty feet up. It wasn't enough to reach the roof, so Kyric kicked off the wall, unfazed by the verticality of the maneuver, and the two crested the edge and landed on the green-durasteel with a solid thud.

"Yer assassin ain't dead. Where the hell are we goin'?"

Kyric didn't wait for an answer and dashed up the dome in an effort to put distance between them and the noghiri.

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Sibylla Abrantes · Jun 27, 2025

Kyric

Aurelian Veruna

The wind tore through Sibylla's loose hair as she stumbled, her lungs still burning from the scream, stars still shinning behind her eyes from the pain. Her scalp stung where the Noghri's claws had yanked but blessed Shiraya, the weight had fallen away. Dark shorn tresses and silvery filigree tendrils scattered like leaves in the moonlight, severed clean but now several inches shorter than the length it had before, barely reaching past her shoulders.

But there was no time to process. No time to work through the maddness that had become that night. Blades clashed against claws, sparks flashing, and a blur of snapping teeth and claws before the muffled scream and the scent of metallic copper filled the air.

Her would be savior had taken a hit.

But wasn't over. Not even close.

Sibylla barely managed a breath before strong arms swept her off her feet.

Kyric said:
"Sorry, ma'am," Kyric managed mid-wince. "I ain't kidnappin' you, but I can't let you die, neither." He shouldered his poncho over the bloody stain on his chest and positioned her atop it. "Hold on

By the time she managed to catch her breath, she barely nodded, automatically wrapping her arms around his neck as he shifted her weight with rough precision, one arm already bleeding beneath her grip.

Then they rose.

Air rushed past her ears, dress snapping, silver beads trailing behind her in a flutter. For a heartbeat, they were weightless, soaring between rooftops with nothing but moonlight and the Force to carry them.

The hard landing swept away all thoughts save the one needed for survival and Sibylla clung harder as Kyric's feet skidded across the green durasteel. The museum's soft, cultured glow below was a cruel contrast to the vicious blur chasing them across the rooftop.

Behind them, the sharp clang of claws on metal rang out.

The Noghri was back, pulling over the ledge with terrifying speed, his limbs coiling and releasing with predatory grace and eyes glowing with feral hunger. He moved low to the surface, sprinting on all fours and gaining.

Kyric said:
"Yer assassin ain't dead. Where the hell are we goin'?"

Sibylla's pulse spiked. She twisted, trying to see behind Kyric's shoulder but the assassin was already closing the gap, jaws open in a silent snarl.

She had to think fast.

Come on, think!

In her mind, the protocols drilled by her father and House Abrantes security unfolded in sharp, clipped steps. Multiple contingency routes. Emergency egress paths. Hidden corridors and unmarked blast doors. A breathless second passed as her instincts aligned.

"Left!" she shouted over the wind, pointing towards another dome and balcony. "Down toward the rear of the museum! We can't go toward the mezzanine theres too many people!"

Couldn't risk others. Not for her. Not again.

From behind them, a voice cracked through the cold night air.

"Lady Abrantes!"

Panicked. Strained. Familiar.

She turned her head in time to see figures pouring out from the rooftop access as her guards, some still half-armored, others wielding blasters shouting and scrambling to respond.

"Secure the perimiter!" someone yelled, before exclaiming, "There!"

The words barely left their mouth before the Noghri leapt again intending to crash right into them, his claws scraping the metal like nails on duraglass, bounding with terrifying momentum, murder in his eyes.

Sibylla didn't look back again.

She just tightened her grip and braced for the next fall.

Kyric · Sunday at 11:36 PM

Sibylla Abrantes said:
"Left!" she shouted over the wind, pointing towards another dome and balcony. "Down toward the rear of the museum! We can't go toward the mezzanine theres too many people!"

Kyric turned a hard left at Sibylla's behest and pumped his legs like he had an endless well of stamina. Every step carried them closer to the edge of the rooftop, but he failed to put any real distance between them and their attacker. The blood soaking the inside of his shirt proved too much for a simple flesh wound, and from the faint blur forming at the edges of the Jedi's vision, he suspected the noghiri nicked something vital—like a lung, or worse, his heart.

The adrenaline made it impossible to tell. It forced Kyric to concentrate entirely on reducing the injury as he pushed across the rooftops. He felt something inside his body knitting itself back together at an agonizingly slow pace and held out hope that it would be enough.

It had to be.

Each pounding footfall behind the kiffar inched closer. The scrape of the noghiri's claws on the durasteel reminded Kyric not of a charging beast, but of a headsman sharpening an axe.

Death loomed within Kyric's shadow.

It pounced forward; the noghiri's claws splayed out wide, reaching for Sibylla to bury them within her back and tear her away from her sole defender.

Kyric didn't even have time to complain before he leaped upward. The strike narrowly missed the young noble, but the noghiri scored another deep cut down the back of the kiffar's leg as he soared up and off the rooftop. Looking back, Kyric thanked the stars the assassin didn't take to the air in lieu of sliding to a stop at the edge of the rooftop.

"Hang on!" Kyric shouted as he finished his rotation and cradled Sibylla against his chest.

The canopy caught them in seconds. Branches shattered against Kyric's body. Gnarled wood snagged at his skin and hair; blood ran from a dozen tiny cuts and each impact felt like being kicked by a wookie. The fall only lasted six, maybe seven seconds, but it felt like an eternity by the time his body thudded against the dirt far below the museum rooftop.

At least he had the wherewithal to breath out to avoid having the wind knocked from his lungs.

Its the little victories, really.

"Goddammit," Kyric groaned. "This is what I get for comin' to Nabo-" He shut his mouth at the sight of a swift-falling shadow and threw himself into a roll that saw both him and Sibylla narrowly escape death again.

The noghiri plummeted from above. The assassin struck the root where the two had been. It's claws tore through the old bark like paper; the earth fissured from the noghiri's strength alone. It turned on them, then, and lifted a blood-stained claw to its nose. It drank deep of the kiffar's scent and a twisted grin spread across its gray face.

"Kyric Karis," the noghiri intoned. "I didn't recognize your bloodline's scent at first. It is rich with history." It flicked the scarlet away into the nearby brush. "I've stumbled upon not one, but two paychecks on this wretched planet. How fortunate."

Kyric spit blood into the dirt and forced himself up onto one knee. He cracked his blade a fraction of an inch behind him; his body blocking both Sibylla and the maneuver. "If you know my name, then you know this ain't gonna end well for you." He forced himself onto his feet, most of his weight on his lead leg—the one not oozing blood.

The noghiri laughed at the sight.

"Lady Sibylla Abrantes," Kyric spoke with such certainty he may have actually looked the part of a Jedi Knight. "I will see you through this, even if it kills me. You have my word."

Tags:

Sibylla Abrantes · Monday at 11:11 AM

Rori Museum of Natural History
Items: x x x x x

Kyric

Sibylla clung to Kyric with what strength remained, the scent of blood thick in the air and smearing onto them both, the teenager trying to orient herself in the blur of canopy and chaos, but her vision swam as her world tilted and spun.

Once again, she was airborne, the air whistling in her ears before it turned into a roar. Moonlight fractured through the leaves, stars spun, and branches clawed at them as if the very trees of Rori sought to swallow them whole.

Then they slammed into the earth.

The impact rattled through her ribs, and a whitehot pain lancing through her left side like a blade. She let out a strangled cry, only for it to die in her throat as her body screamed in protest.While Kyric had held onto his breath, she had not. Her ribs burned in protest and it burned to breath, panicked gasps crawling up her throat. And worse, despite Kyric's best intentions, the Noghri had struck her.

She hadn't even seen it. Just the rush of wind, a flash of movement and then agony. Three long, burning lines tore across her back over her shoulder, slicing through the embroidered silk of her gown like it was paper. The silk had barely held, and had it not been for the kinetic and blaster resistant weave her father had insisted she wear, the claws would have torn deeper, into lung, into bone.

Even so, blood was already soaking through the icy blue silk amidst the tangle of dirt, leaves, and shorn branches from the roll. She could feel it, warm and sickening, blooming over her back in an ever growing crimson stain. Even moving her shoulder struck her with pain, her breathing hitching with every attempted strangled breath as Kyric set her behind her to block any incoming attack.

But there wasn't even time gather her bearings. The relentless creature proweled towards them after chasing them down to the ground, the Noghri flicking his wrist to send the scarlet droplets that clung to his claws onto the floor like an artist finishing a painting.

Beside her, Kyric spat into the dirt and forced himself to his feet with defiance that made her heart twist. His chest was soaked red, and his leg dragging, yet his voice rang out clearly.

Kyric said:
"Lady Sibylla Abrantes," Kyric spoke with such certainty he may have actually looked the part of a Jedi Knight. "I will see you through this, even if it kills me. You have my word."

And she believed him.

But the Noghri didn't flinch. His gaze flicked between them, assessing and calculating his next move like a butcher mentally carving out his next cut.

Yet it was the pounding of boots that saved them. Dozens of them. Blasters powering up. Voices shouting across the tree line.

"Secure the Lady!"

"Don't let him escape!"

Spotlights lanced through the trees and hoverdroids shot through the air, sending blinding rays of spot lights at their direction. The guards had finally arrived, their boots crunching through brush and mud, weapons raised.

The Noghri tensed.

It was the moment of decision.

One heartbeat passed. Then two.

And then with a savage hiss he lunged. Not at Sibylla.

At Kyric.

The claws came fast, a blur in the moonlight, aiming not to kill but to mark. The Noghri swiped across Kyric's chest again, not deep, but intending to lace a purposeful a message carved in pain.

"A blood debt Kyric Karis," the assassin snarled, voice low and venomous. "I will return for what is owed!"

With a powerful leap, he bounded backward, claws scraping across bark and stone as he vaulted up a nearby dome. Another leap then another. Then he was gone, swallowed by the darkness of the Rorian jungle.

Sibylla's body trembled, bloody hands shook. Every breath came with a stab of pain. Her vision shimmered at the edges. Cries echoed around them, guards rushing in, voices raised in alarm.

It all felt... far away. Surreal.

The copper taste of blood was thick in her nostrils, and adrenaline was thick in her mouth making her quesy. Her heart raced in uneven staccato, the very real assasination attempt at her life finally hitting her. This wasn't like the Mandalorian raid attack at Theed, or at Dee'ja Peak. This had been directly aimed at her. Not a collateral damage but a direct hit.

Her hazel eyes blinked rapidly up towards Kyric, still standing in front of her, still bleeding.

He'd carried her. Fought for her. Bled for her.

"Who... are you?" she whispered, her voice hoarse, raw with pain and smoke. She knew, knew, he had to be a Force user. But Jedi? Mercenary? Vigilante?

Did it even matter?

No, she thought, as her vision tilted and dimmed. Not tonight.

"Lady Abrantes!" someone called again. Distant…So very far.

Then darkness pulled her under and she knew nothing more.

Aurelian Veruna · Tuesday at 9:27 PM

Aurelian, a phantom in silk, clung to the museum's highest balcony, a vantage point overlooking the west wing. Below, the gala played out like a distant, glittering charade, one he had no part in, nor desire to join. Shadows swallowed him whole, the glass of his wine untouched on the railing beside him. He had the best view in the house, certainly, though not of the fossilized exhibits or the flocks of donors preening over their hors d'oeuvres. No, his gaze was fixed on the stage that truly mattered.

Sibylla Abrantes, a sliver of silver and ice, carved a path through the throng. Her smile was a flawless mask, the kind worn by those who navigate a world of vipers. How predictable.

Then, a whisper of wrongness, a ripple in the carefully constructed air. His fingers tightened imperceptibly around the untouched stem of his wine glass. He felt the shift, a tremor only those who had paid dearly for it would recognize: motion in the dark. The kind of movement even trained eyes missed. But Aurelian hadn't missed it. He'd paid for it.

The Noghri.

Aurelian didn't move. Didn't breathe. Didn't shout. Didn't call for guards or step into the light. He simply watched, a statue carved from shadows. This wasn't just a spectacle; it was a reckoning. For her. For himself. His expression remained utterly neutral as the assassin closed in, only the slightest narrowing of his eyes betraying the coiled tension in his chest.

Then a second shadow tore through the air, this one descending. Kyric. The Kiffar hit the rooftop with the force of a meteor, and the museum's quiet expanse transformed into a brutal stage.

Aurelian watched Sibylla flee, the Noghri pursue, the Kiffar bleed. Watched the hungry jungle below swallow them whole. A knot tightened in his gut, unexpected and unwelcome. Not guilt, not exactly. But something insidious.

He lifted the glass, finally, and drained it slowly, his gaze fixed on the dark maw of the treeline. No saints here, he thought. No victories either. Just survival, clawed from blood and thorns.

He turned and vanished into the corridor, leaving no trace.

----

Hours later. The frigid air of House Veruna's grand study.

The study doors slammed open before Aurelian could even unbutton his coat, the true greeting was the silence that followed, a crushing weight worse than any shout. Remus Veruna stood behind his desk, a monolith of old power, arms crossed, eyes like twin storms. Every line of his face, every rigid angle, spoke of a house built on whispers and steel.

"You let her live," Remus said, quiet as a death sentence. Dangerous.

Aurelian didn't flinch. "It would have been rather gauche to have the princess butchered on museum marble, wouldn't it?" his voice smooth despite the sudden chill in the room.

The backhand cracked across Aurelian's face, a sudden, brutal punctuation mark. He staggered, cheek blooming crimson, tasting copper. He righted himself slowly, wiping his mouth with a thumb, studying the smear of blood as if it were a personal affront.

"You interfered," Remus snarled, his voice a low, furious rumble. "I gave you a task, not an invitation to play hero."

"No," Aurelian said, his voice quiet, controlled, dangerous in its own right. "You gave me an animal. I made a call."

Remus launched himself around the desk, a blur of rage, and his fist connected with Aurelian's jaw. Aurelian went down hard, scattering glass across the polished floor, a sharp shard biting into his palm.

"I should have left you to rot in that academy. Soft. Useless. You risk everything we've built, for what? A feeling? Some pathetic, noble crush?"

"Please, there is no one less desirable than Sibylla Abrantes," Aurelian hissed through bloodied teeth, his own eyes blazing with a raw, desperate fire. "But I respect her and what she might be able to do. And that, father, is more than you've ever earned from anyone in this galaxy."

Remus loomed, breathing hard, the veins on his temple throbbing like dark ropes. Then, with a chilling calm, he straightened. "You think this ends with your little theatrics? No, son. I have... other means." He turned his back, a dismissal colder than any curse, as if Aurelian were already less than nothing.

"This was your warning," Remus said, his voice a blade of ice as he walked to the door. "Next time, I won't stop with your face."

The doors closed behind him like a final, damning verdict.

Aurelian remained slumped amidst the shattered glass, the silence a bleeding wound. His hands, he noticed, were shaking.

No saints in silk, he thought. Only survivors.