Private To stand in bitter shadows

[Darth Valar]

Millenia of disrepair and callous extravagance clung to the smoggy air that wrapped around Darth Valar's cloak, the worn and frayed fabric hemmed in at her waist, left to dangle at her upper thighs rather than amongst the stagnant puddles and rusted metal that stained the grooves of her weathered boots. She ignored the people who fled from her path, a single glance at the saber upon her hip, or the disdainful sneer that crossed her lips more than enough of a warning for most. It was almost a shame that none dared otherwise; she could have done with the stress relief, and bitterly, she thought that the extra bodies would at least justify the smell.

With another step that narrowly avoided an utterly unrecognisable piece of refuse, she turned off the street, entering an airlock that hissed behind her with a surprisingly soft click of the mechanisms that sealed it closed. Her hands lingered at the edge of her belt, awaiting a sign of danger that never materialised, the air held on a razor's edge that had settled upon her shoulders ever since she set foot on Nar Shaddaa. A familiar buzz rattled through her skin and deep into the bones, shaking the muck from her attire as it sludged off her boots and into drains along the side of the airlock.

The click on the other side opened a portal to another world, trailing sombre jazz that dreamed of yesteryear and lost loves under the dim lights of a world seeded in the hazy breath of incense and tantalising spices that entranced the senses. Darth Valar's eyes gleamed, a burning shade of orange and gold that tore across the room, past the midnight blue tint of the barkeeper's domain under a midnight light, and over the booth that snugged against the walls where secrets were shared and wishes turned to deals.

Open: Scherezade deWinter​

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

Darth Valar

---

The jazz hit her first, smoky, slow, the kind of sound that made people confuse good old days with ones that had never really been good at all. Scherezade paused at the threshold, tugging the hem of her skin-tight dress down a fraction to ensure it wouldn't ride up at an unwanted moment. The airlock hissed shut behind her, and she inhaled the scent of incense and spice that clung to everything in the room.

Nar Shaddaa. Still loud, still filthy, still pretending to be a haven. She wouldn't have it any other way.

Her glowing green eyes adjusted to the haze, sweeping over the booths, the bar, and the silhouettes that had more urgent things to spend their focus and chips on than her. She'd been following a name through the undercity for three nights now, and if her hunch was right, this was where it ended.

A soft chime rolled from her belt when she shifted her weight, the faintest glint of glitter clinging to her glove as she brushed a strand of black hair out of her face. It didn't belong here. But that was Scherezade, a splash of chaos that managed to out-chaos places that were sufficiently chaotic to begin with.

Scherezade moved with a laid back ease towards the bar and leaned against it, signalling for the bartender to attend her.

"I'll have a White Mynock," she purred at him and he nodded. Her safe drink. The one she could order almost anywhere, but that people who'd never tended a bar rarely knew.

Behind her, conversation faltered, jazz kept dreaming, and the air waited for… Something.

 

[Darth Valar]

Darth Valar's calloused fingers trailed along the tattered stretch of her raised hood, valiantly serving its place as a shield from the incessant eyes that followed every arrival through the airlock. Their unworthy gazes, sharp and desperate, crawled across her robed silhouette like the outstretched blades of a ravenous korslug in search of a morsel. A few even dared to smile as she looked their way, unwilling to ignore their stares, even when they remained unaware that their attention was anything else but an insult that she was forced to bear, or else face the consequences of turning a bar in this district into a charnelhouse.

It remained tempting all the same.

The cloying smell of freshly imported sage did little to hide the stench of greed that lingered in the air, even as their attention shifted away from Valar. A second glance at the worn cloak and stained boots was enough to dissuade all but the most curious. Those who remained were the dangerous ones, the few who stared upon a target and saw more than the tale her clothes were meant to tell. If they were smart enough, they might even keep their distance, though she doubted it. Nar Shaddaa was not a world that inspired intelligence, only bottom feeders with enough wits to survive, and even then, only because they knew their place.

She stamped her way across the room, past a booth with a lowlife that barely got a word in before she'd walked past, their words nothing but air upon the wind, lost on her journey towards the bar at the back.

"A Red Dwarf," Valar demanded of the bartender with a flash of credits, as she settled upon one of the stools that gave her a view of each step that led to the crimson drink that was placed in front of her. The smile she gave them would have chilled another man's blood; instead, they merely nodded before they moved on to the next customer.

Then, the Sith turned, fingers errantly roaming the rim of her frosted glass, keyed to a tension that only she could feel, as it lingered in the air like ozone gathering moments before the storm that followed. It was almost surprising when the eye settled, not upon a figure in armour, or a pirate decked in layers of gold, but rather a woman practically sealed to the skin-tight dress that should have received nothing more than a sneer of disdain. Only a fool, however, ignored the instincts that had saved them a thousand times before. So, with a level of intrigue that surprised her, the Pantoran stared down Scherezade deWinter.

Tags: Scherezade deWinter​

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

Darth Valar

---

The glass hit the counter with a soft clink. White Mynock. Cream over ice, perfect to blend in while everybody else thought you were having booze. Just how she liked it.

Scherezade took a slow sip and let the cool sweetness linger, glowing green eyes half-lidded as she watched the room's reflections ripple in the glass. For a while, she looked like she was minding. The hum of conversation picked up again, the music swayed lazily back into rhythm, and for one small moment, Nar Shaddaa almost convinced her to relax.

But Something in the air shifted. She felt a prickle along her spine, a note out of tune in the background hum of the Force. She glanced sideways, catching the faint shimmer of gold and blue in the corner of her vision. Someone was watching.

Her gaze slid that way, slow as honey. Their eyes met and she inhaled, taking the other woman's race in. Pantoran. Watching her. Scherezade blinked once, feigning confusion, then smiled. "Do I have something between my teeth?" The question came light, teasing, meant to disarm. It probably didn't, but she still bared her teeth and ran a finger tip on them, trying to get an imaginary piece of foliage out from between them.

Before she could decide if she liked the attention or not, someone brushed against her shoulder. It was hard enough to jostle her drink and send cold cream spilling over her fingers.

Her reaction was instant. Scherezade's hand shot out, catching the offender's wrist before he could stumble away. He was drunk, or pretending to be, breath sour with spice and bravado. "Sorry, doll," he slurred, but his free hand was already reaching for a knife. She sighed. Of course.

The next sound was the crack of bone against wood as she twisted his arm and slammed him face-first into the bar. The blade clattered uselessly to the floor. Two of his friends started to rise from a booth nearby. Scherezade kicked off her heels in one smooth motion, caught the edge of the bar with her free hand, and spun in a clean arc, short dress flashing, heel connecting squarely with another man's jaw.

For the briefest of moments, the room froze. Then chaos bloomed. Tables scraped, shouts rose, and someone's glass shattered against the floor.

Through it all, Scherezade stood over the first man, her bare foot against his throat while she tried to decide what she wanted to do with him. She looked back at the Pantoran, lips curling in a grin that was half apology, half invitation.

"Nar Shaddaa hospitality," she shrugged and gave a childish and innocent grin, "You know how it is."

 

[Darth Valar]

Darth Valar leaned against the bar, one arm outstretched towards the murky glass she cradled with her fingers, the blue tint of the lights above turning the liquid within a chill purple as she pulled it closer, out of sight from the opportunistic scum that would dare to test her for weakness. As if anything they possessed would serve as something more than a temporary obstruction, a nuisance at worst, but more likely, an infuriating source of power to burn in her veins until the proper lesson had been taught by her hand.

It was a shame she was otherwise preoccupied. She did so ever love to teach the uninformed. Business, however, cared little for Valar's wants and needs. It was, after all, a greedy mistress, not unlike her patron, ever reaching for more power in an attempt to breach the waves, before consequences came to drag her back into the drowning depths. Amusing, if not for the chains that bound Valar to the sinking vessel.

Nar Shaddaa wasn't much of a life raft, but for all the lies promising wealth and fortune, it did have some commodities, at least, if one was willing to toil in the muck. Actually finding a mercenary company, however, required more than just taking a stroll into the right bar or headquarters. At least, that was what Valar had been told by the people she'd asked.

So far, the woman in front of her was the closest thing the Pantoran had to a lead. The Force simmering around them with static bursts of potential that bloomed off in paths of lightning, dismissed before they'd even occurred, but leaving only certainty in Valar's decision to come here.

Amber eyes studied their target without a hint of censure, undaunted by the flicker of confusion that crossed their expression, before teeth were bared in a smile that others would consider attractive. Valar only returned the gesture, sharper and with a glint of challenge in her eyes as she leaned further across the bar.

Only to be interrupted by the unexpected presence of a layabout, their stumbling stride faltering into the back of Scherezade before Valar could respond.

Then, chaos broke out.

The entire bar shook under the reverberations of a skull driven into the hardwood surface, a tremor of fear following in its wake, as patrons across the bar reached for their shaken drinks. All of which, Valar watched with a spark of amusement, her fingers twitching in anticipation for a fight that from all appearances was finished before it even truly began.

"I can't say that I've had the pleasure," She smiled, wicked like a knife. "A real shame if all occasions are so spirited, though I'm sure most would disagree. People just don't seem to enjoy a drink with entertainment anymore. What, however, does one do with the trash in a place like this?"

At that, she raised her Red Dwarf to her lips and took a drink.

Tags: Scherezade deWinter​

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

Darth Valar

---

Scherezade wiped a smear of cream from her fingers and smirked, ducking just in time as a chair sailed past her ear. She rolled over the back of it in a single, graceful motion, planting herself lightly behind the bar before springing forward again. The first man groaned somewhere even if her heel was no longer on his throat, his friends still coming for her with teeth bared and fists swinging.

"You'd think a bar this fancy would have manners," she muttered, voice low but teasing, as she caught the wrist of one and sent him careening into a table with a crack.

Her single hidden blade flicked free from the garter strapped to her thigh. It was small, precise, and almost elegant in the way she wielded it. No one would know without a closer inspection that it wasn't much more than a butter knife. Not enough to kill, but enough to make anyone who challenged her reconsider. Then again, Scherezade was the type of woman who could make confetti become dangerous. Probably had, on at least a few different occasions.

A second staggered back, clutching his ribs, giving her just enough room to pivot and kick off the counter. Drinks sloshed dangerously, ice clinking, but she ignored all of that, as chaos was usually her garnish of choice.

Glancing over her shoulder, she caught the Pantoran's amber eyes watching from across the bar, calm and unflinching. Green eyes glittering, she offered a grin, wide and wicked, finger pointing like a mock salute.

"Sorry about the mess. I promise I'm usually more polite. But sometimes…" She twirled the blade between her fingers, letting the metal catch the light. "…a girl's just gotta dance."

Another scuffle erupted, and she lunged, sliding low under a swing and tripping one of them into the bartender's foot. The music swelled, the air vibrated with shouts and crashes, and through it all, Scherezade's laugh rang out, bright, chaotic, and entirely unrepentant.

Only to come to a sudden stop. The Pantoran had asked her a question, and she had been unmannered in ignoring it.

The next person who tried to come at her found themselves hitting an invisible wall as Scherezade used the Force to hold them back, her glowing green eyes now on the other woman.

"You know, I've never thought about it," she admitted, "I just let them lie where they fall. Usually by the time I come to the area again, they're long gone."

 

[Darth Valar]

The crimson liquid in Darth Valar's glass caught a glint from the overhead bulb, a bleeding wound turned bruised around the edges as the fight across the bar commenced in a frantic haze of panicked movement from those desperate and foolish enough to assume that Scherezade would be a simple target, only to realise their dreadful mistake. Chaos flowed through the bar like a river, beautiful and sleek, leaving sentient debris scattered in its wake as an example to those who would dare to face the riptide.

With a smile painted across her lips, Valar tipped her glass back, a trail of fire descending down her throat, leaving a delightful burn and caressing her body with a hollow warmth that spread from deep within her chest. An ember flickered, a promise of hazy enjoyment and the ever-present desire that could be found with the languid removal of bitter chains, pleasure before business, found at the bottom of a glass and the taint of alcohol that lingered in the back of her throat.

It was a mistake, easy to fall into as closing her eyes.

A burst of laughter, bright and clear, broke through the dreary haze, delivering wonderful warmth like sunlight piercing through misty fog. Valar blinked and, with a wave of her hand, scattered the blue-tinted smoke that surrounded her face; the sweet smell of spices dissolved with the harsh scent of iron in the air, which leaked from crumpled forms, their hearts a pleasant beat in the accompaniment of lovers' laments.

Amused, she sipped again at the poison in her glass, the familiar burn slipping beneath the skin before she reached out towards the silent storm, a promise of violence and adventure that lingered in her grasp. Then, with a press of her will, she forced the energy through her veins, electrons charged and crackled, a faint glow leaking from her blazing eyes as the haze was purged from her body. Only for the currents to rive again with the next sip that dripped down her throat, a chain of mistakes and the power to fix them.

It was not quite the same strength that allowed one to leave their foes as living examples.

The Force rumbled at the Pantoran's touch, a constant live wire that grew sensitive to her harsh attention, unable to lash out from a sheer sense of will that demanded it obey and behave, even as others traced at the connection, a flicker of intention gathering strength until, with a thought, Scherezade caught another foe in its grasp. Slouched across the bar, Valar raised an eyebrow in faint amusement, her presence languid and prowling over the room in a similar manner, even before, with a playful flick of her hands, the Force ploughed forward, a wave of energy that flowed past Scherezade's barrier and straight into the mercenary as their back clattered against the nearby wall. They didn't rise.

"I find myself torn in awe and disbelief, to dismiss a threat with the faith it will not return. What strength you must have to believe it so," the words were spoken as little more than a whisper, admiring in a way one could never aspire to. Valar stared upon the pale-skinned beauty with a glint of curiosity she could not hide, her eyes trailing over the limbs corded with muscle, while her presence in the Force loomed, held back for the sake of politeness, a bloodhound on a leash, inches from the scent of its favoured prey.

Dark blue lips smiled, "I do not believe we are acquainted. I am Darth Valar."

Tags: Scherezade deWinter​