Faction [TSC] WELCOME TO 1313 | OPEN

[Arris Windrun]

Lorn Reingard Acier Moonbound Varin Mortifer Vestra Tane Gillem Lysander von Ascania Anet Raine Adelle Bastiel Reina Daival Quinn Varanin Mercy Tamsin Starfall Ellissanthia Skael the Patient Darth Miasma Qyssiyana Nunterc Trundiav Nej Tane Snees D'ner Aymeric Prendergast Nilira Vornix Romi Jade Elian Abrantes Bushido Brown Kitter Bitters Groushh Tatiana Sah Ives | OPEN TO ALL

Under the shadow of a durasteel sky and bathed only in the glow of neon lights is the infamous heart of Coruscant's underworld. Here, it doesn't matter who rules the city above. Home to vice dens, back alley bazaars, dark secrets, and syndicate turfs, Level 1313 is as dangerous as it is exciting. Experience grunge entertainment, live music, and strong substances at Club Cadaver, the party that never ends. Browse illicit and unknown wares found throughout the bazaars of Butcher's Row. Or get lost in The Guts, Coruscant's most claustrophobic neighborhood, carved through cramp, dark alleys with doors and paths that might lead somewhere interesting, or... nowhere good at all.

Just remember the golden rule: What happens in 1313 stays in 1313.

LOCALE ONE

​

CLUB CADAVER is the party that never ends. This multistory club comes with everything you could ever want: Bars, VIP booths, dance floors, live music, and dubious substances. If you’ve come to 1313 to meet new people and make regretful choices, look no further than CLUB CADAVER.

LOCALE TWO

​

No criminal underworld is without its unregulated markets. From outlaw tech to artifacts of suspicious provenance, street food vendors and counterfeit goods, there’s no better place to shop than BUTCHER’S ROW. Just be sure to watch your pockets and don’t haggle without a backup plan, or you'll find out why they call it that.

Note: PC vendors - you are MORE than welcome to sell YOUR goods here!

LOCALE THREE

Where am I? How did I get here? Is that MY blood? If you’re asking questions like that, chances are you’ve ended up in THE GUTS - 1313’s most claustrophobic community; found in a maze of looping, narrow alleys and liminal spaces with seemingly no end. But it’s not without its charms. THE GUTS has dinky bars, sketchy gambling dens, and other local flavors. Just... expect them to be an acquired taste.

JOIN US ON DISCORD

​

 

[Anet Raine]

Tags: Adelle Bastiel | Reina Daival | Quinn Varanin | OPEN
Wearing: This Fit | Choker

"Imperials can't party."

"What?"

Two men, a Snivven and a Kiffar, were having the most important philosophical discussion of the century.

"You heard me. Imperials CAN'T party. Sith can."

The Snivven blinked. "Are you tryina say the Empire lost because Imperials don't party?"

"No," the Kiffar corrected. "Imperials CAN'T party. The Galactic Empire, the Dark Empire, the Confederation. How many of 'em partied?"

The Snivven actually considered that one, and arrived at... "Eh... Surely they must have--"

"No!" The other shook his head. "They've got the sleek uniforms, the iconic ships, all that fancy rank and file but--"

"They can't party..." finished the Snivven in his grim epiphany. He looked the Kiffar in his eyes, almost afraid to ask. "The Empire lost because they can't party?"

The Kiffar nodded sagely. "Yep."

Anet Raine, Sith Acolyte, arrived at Club Cadaver. To party. She found a nice booth, not too far from the dance floor, and within beeline of one of the bars. The half-pantoran slunk past the two 'philosophers' standing in her way and slid along the upholstered couch. When they paused to look at her, she gave them a stare that said 'go away,' and they did.

 

[Nunterc Trundiav]

T H E - B O S S B A N - O F - P O R T - N O W H E R E

The journey down to Level 1313 was a risk for an Underworlder like Nunterc, especially now that the Sith Covenant had overthrown the Galactic Empire in just one campaign. The situation was dire enough that the central government crumbled a day later on Balmorra, signaling the demise of the second Great Imperial Power that had held sway over the core.

With Black Sun also struggling under the burden of overexpansion, the Guildmaster was not enjoying a particularly pleasant evening as the armored lift screeched to a stop. The heavy blast doors hissed open, exposing him to the sensory overload of Club Cadaver. The party that never ends truly lived up to its name, presenting a maze of neon platforms and dancers filling every available space, mingling with the pungent smell of death sticks.

The Bothan stepped out, boots clicking softly against the surface of the floor. He looked like a man who belonged in a spice den yet he navigated the chaos of the establishment with clear purpose.

Flanking him were four Mythosaur Supercommandos, their T-shaped visors glinting in the flashing lights of the dance floor. He felt no urge to venture out unprotected, as they pushed aside the crowd of eager spacers and shady informants, clearing a path for him to reach a secluded booth on the second level.

 

[Varin Mortifer]

CLUB CADAVER​

He sat at the bar as conversation buzzed around him. The glass in his hand held the brown amber liquid that burned as it traveled down his throat. He sipped on it, the ice within the glass shifting and he placed it back on the table.

“Another.”

The bartender, who was cleaning a stein looked towards him brow arched.

“Sir, that was your fourth drink, are you sure you-”

Varin looked him over then his gaze found his face.

“Another.”

The bartender shrugged and began pouring into his glass.

“Suit yourself. This is some strong stuff though, might need to sit for a while.”

Varin picked up the glass and sipped it over as he spoke, placing some credits down on the bar. Music thumped and thudded in his ear making it hard to hear himself think, but he was not here to think, he was here to enjoy himself and to have a few drinks. Well, a few more drinks.

“Do you have something stronger?”

The bartenders eyes widened at his request.

“Son, you shouldn’t even be conscious after what all you had already drank!”

A sigh left his throat as he picked up a much older bottle of clear liquid.

“From the Hutt’s older stash.”

He poured him another drink as Varin finished the one he had previously had.

“What do slugs know of brewing?”

Varin looked at the glass as the crystal clear liquid poured smoothly into the glass. He picked it up and smelt it, the smell alone brought a sense of burn to his nostrils causing them to flare. He looked at the bartender.

“Might wanna take that slow big guy.”

Varin sat back in the chair glass in hand and tipped it back, gulping the liquid down in one go. The bartender gritted his teeth as he watched.

“Oh you’re gonna feel that soon kid.”

Tags: OPEN​

 

[Arris Windrun]

Tag: Eira Dyn | OPEN
Wearing: Leather jacket | Spacer's slacks and black boots

Cybernetic eyes opened, adjusting to the low light. Her body shifted under a pile of junk and trash.

"Huh?" Arris looked around. "Why am I..."

Then, the sound of clattering from above. Junk metal and garbage fell, and she was lying right in the dumping spot. Her eyes opened wider.

"Oh, shi--"

Arris scrambled. It was difficult to move, but she managed to just barely roll out of the way and tumbled down the mountain of trash until she fell into a cramped alleyway. As the cyborg stood, she noticed her balance was incredibly off. She looked down and saw cybernetic legs, which were expected. Rusted outer casing. Archaic mechanism, a thousand-year-old design. Cheap as hell. That was not expected.

Ah. "These aren't my legs!" She gestured at her feet.

Those weren't her hands or arms either. Someone, somehow, had replaced Arris Windrun's cybernetics, and she couldn't even remember who or why, let alone how. To make matters worse, she patted empty holsters at her side. Arms and legs were an easy replacement. Priceless, two-of-a-kind slugthrowers were not.

"Who the hell has my guns?!" Arris screamed at the top of her artificial lungs.
CC: Lysander von Ascania | Riffraff Ranat

In all her confusion, Arris hadn't even noticed, until now, that there was something off about her vision. The whole world was tinted green, and there was a HUD and information stream burned into her vision as if a viewscreen.

"My eyes too?!" She thought to herself.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Naniti
​

Tonight, Lysander took on the appearance of a tailored shadow. A black button up shirt, sleeves rolled to the forearms, revealing scars that had been born when polite conversation was off the table; trousers of the same hue cut to a line.

The only thing out of place in his appearance was the slugthrower riding at his hip. He might've been borrowing it from Arris Windrun . 'Borrowed' being a flexible term..

She'd notice eventually.

Sounds arrived from every direction. There was the metallic laugh of a vendor's hawk, the hiss of a deal struck in a language he did not quite understand. Perhaps it was Sith arrogance, but they were all threads he could pull if he wanted; for now, he chose not to. For now.. he just wanted to listen.

The alley was washed in neon glow, and steam curled from frying pans. The smell was layered too.. fried protein and spice. Somewhere along the way, he might've even caught the metallic tang of blood. The place was probably crawling with counterfeit credits. He'd been here years ago, same exact spot, as a padawan. Now, the Sith Knight never imagined returning with a pack of marauders to claim the Core. The thought would have been laughable to that boy back then.

A few months ago, he traveled half the galaxy with Naniti; maybe he'd been spoiled? Since the siege of Coruscant there had been little time for such indulgences. Back then, they were always looking for reasons to ditch Desevro. Now the reasons were rarer.

He reached for his datapad, brushing the cover before flipping it open. The glow of the blue screen spilled over his face with light that coaxed an honest smile. At no point did the doctrine say he couldn't find contentment. If that ever meant savoring life's little moments strategically, then that's just how he'd have to embrace them.

Fingers drifted and began their choreography, letting a thought take form.

Hi noodlehead. I just arrived. Where are you?

 

[Tatiana Sah]

The visit to Coruscant was not one to be taken lightly.

Or so she had been told. Tatiana was, however, curious of the realm occupied by the ideological opposites to the Jedi. Everything she had seen and heard spoke of the biases that people were capable of -- willfully or otherwise. Empirical data was necessary to truly informed conclusion regarding the nature of the Force, its place in the galaxy, and the very character of other factions occupying that galaxy. In short, it was her personal mission to come.

Which is how she came to stand next to a bar and watch a man drink liquor like it was water. He looked Human. In a way. Though, Tatiana couldn't help but notice his stature even sitting down. Halfway through seven foot was her estimation. Physically imposing by Human standard. That was before taking into account other characteristics, which only accentuated the air of danger about him.

Now, Tatiana knew it was rude to stare, but circumstances should excuse the act. "Is that brew particularly strong?" She had tried a few drinks elsewhere. Sampled several flavors and ended up in a few drunken conversations here or there. The Jedi Order would never approve, but Tatiana had conducted herself appropriately so what they didn't know wouldn't hurt them.

She was fairly certain that proverb was correctly applied.

"You have a remarkable fortitude. An... iron stomach?" There was a different metaphor to use in a situation like this, Tatiana was certain. She'd heard it once, but even as she tried to hear them the ambient noise had muddled it.

As for Tatiana, she was a foot and a half shorter with blond hair. A brown, spacer-leather jacket hung open at the front to reveal a leather corset snug over the lower portion of her chest with white cotton providing comfort and a bit more cover near the collar bone. Her blue eyes sparkled with an effortless, small smile on her lips.

"May I?" Tatiana asked of Varin Mortifer .

OPEN​

 

[Naniti]

A sharp grunt. A thud. The violet Togruta stood over the collapsed body of The Muscle in an alleyway. A companion and their Boss stood ready to follow through on an interloper none too keen on having their routine ruined.

She couldn't kick both of them in the crotch and then belt them across the face, however, so Naniti drew her saber and let the crimson blade do the talking. Pointed right at the throat of their Boss too. "Get lost," she snapped for Third Wheel's benefit. When they didn't haul ass, she added, "Now," with the raging plasma inching closer to flesh and the man crying for them to get lost.

"You should take care who you try to abduct around these parts these days," Naniti said once the unnecessary audience was gone. "You never know who might be a Sith aching for a reason to cut you open stem to stern."

The man's chin was lifted to avoid the saber's tip. His voice was steady, but spoken with a pace anxious to have circumstance changes soon, "Is that why you're here? One of the others--"

"Do you have any idea what it takes to be a Sith Acolyte?" Naniti stared at the man. "An Apprentice? A knight? A Lord? No, you wouldn't." The blade swept away from his throat and soon retracted into the hilt. "If you caught them they weren't going to last anyway. You did us a favor."

Then the Togruta surged forward and thrust him up against the wall with her forearm across his throat. "But listen up, you and your kind can never tell which of us is stronger than the rest. So take extra care which ones you harass, or it will be your last."

She held him there for a moment to make sure they'd gotten the point before she stepped back. A ping sounded and Naniti pulled out a small device. No parting word was given as she turned and stepped out of the alleyway without another glance at the local gang Boss. They either got the message, or they'd end up dead soon enough. Naniti kind of hoped they lived. Now they'd taken that First Step, they might even find some way to make use of one another. That was an important thing to do on big worlds, especially surrounded by Powerful People.

A minute later, Naniti drifted into view where Lysander had made himself comfortable. "What's this about noodles? How can you be starving on a planet like this?" she called out with a smirk.

Lysander von Ascania

 

[Varin Mortifer]

CLUB CADAVER​

He felt eyes on him as he placed the now empty glass onto the bar, a grimace appearing on his face as he grunted from the sizable burn from his chest. He coughed a couple of times to clear his throat before her voice caught his attention and his head slowly turned to see a blond woman asking about his choice of poison.

“I uh…I believe so? Normally drinks take a while before they start affecting me but this.”

He slowly looked at the bottle all labeled in Huttese.

“I can’t even read it, but yeah. That is very strong stuff.”

He squinted slightly as if that would help him read a bit better, it didn’t. He sat the bottle back down on the bar in front of her and tapped the bar for a second glass for her. The bartender gently set the glass down.

“I don’t get to drink much. But I figured, its a party, why not cut loose some.”

He kept his eyes on the bar as a bead of sweat began to build on his temple. He tapped his fingers on the bar as a way to keep busy.

That is until the mystery brew started kicking in.

His head felt lighter, his body swayed just a bit and the very heat that emitted from his body cooled off to nearly normal levels in a human body.

“Oh boy”

He mumbled to himself.

“Normally….I…uh…do have an iron stomach…”

He looked back at her and squinted slightly, as if he recognized a familiar face, though he had never met her in his life. He then realized he was staring and quickly looked right back at the bar.

“Go ahead, give it a try.”

He chuckled nervously.

Tatiana Sah | OPEN​

 

[Vestra Tane]

Tags: OPEN!
Objective: Stimulants

Gangly. Spindly. Long-limbed and wiry, and covered in scars. Vestra Tane swayed ever so slightly as she moved through Club Cadaver, already deep in a bottle of tihaar. Somehow, she made the dress work. She respected little about the Mandalorians, but alongside a knack for weaponizing amphibians, they were damn good at booze.

"They can't party..." finished the Snivven in his grim epiphany. He looked the Kiffar in his eyes, almost afraid to ask. "The Empire lost because they can't party?"

The Kiffar nodded sagely. "Yep."

There. Perfect. These two seemed like exactly the sort of intellectuals Vestra needed at the moment.

She staggered over to where Anet had sent the pair sulking, and draped arms over shoulders like they were some of her oldest friends.

"You're Force-damned right," She hicced, a grin spreading across her face. It lacked its usual malice; maybe all of the alcohol had mellowed Vestra out for the time being. Maybe she was just in a good mood.

"Imps don't got any..." hic, "No love of the game. No whimsy. None of 'em remember how to fight for the fun of it," She pushed herself off the Snivvian, now, and focused her attention on the Kiffar. He was kind of cute; almost her type, given a little eyeliner on his part or another drink on hers.

The Sith blinked, mind briefly occupied by thoughts of a hypothetical, deeply regrettable hookup, before she returned, a fraction, to her senses.

Right.

She was talking to these people for a reason.

With more deftness than her inebriation should have allowed her, she slid a key-card into the Kiffar's coat pocket.

"Man. Man - man, man. There's a bike outside, yeah?" She was doing half the talking with her hands, and struggled to maintain eye contact. "Got a roll cage on it. Really," hic, "Fething ugly. Too much gold." She took half a step back, then clapped her impromptu gopher on the shoulder and gave him an encouraging push. "Go get the, uh, the crate on the cargo rack. You can have the first line, yeah?"

Vestra didn't wait to hear the man's response - her attention was already elsewhere, and she was hungry for more innocent victims to harass.

 

[Lorn Reingard]

Tags: Acier Moonbound​

Level 1313 seemed to swallow anything good in the galaxy and spit it out rotten.

Lorn stepped off the lift into heat, noise, and the smell of spice and rust. Neon bled across wet duracrete. Music thudded through the walls like a second pulse. He kept his hood low and his presence lower. The Force dimmed around him. No need to advertise a Jedi in such a place.

The Empire's grip on the Core had collapsed in weeks. A Sith cult had torn through what remained, fast and brutal. No warning. Not even from Ace. I should have felt it, Lorn thought. I should have been there.

Sibylla Abrantes 's message had found him on Yavin. Ace was in trouble back on Naboo. Chaos everywhere. Then the tracker Lorn had planted into the young man months ago went dark. Silence. That had been enough.

He moved through the Guts without breaking stride. Narrow alleys twisted back on themselves. Faces watched from doorways. A body lay slumped against a wall, breathing shallow. Lorn did not look twice. If he stopped for every lost soul down here, he would never find the one he came for.

Find Ace. Get him out. Leave.

A flicker of irritation rose as a crowd pressed in around him. Too many bodies. Too close. He had grown up on Naboo under open skies. Even poverty there had space to breathe. This was compression. This was rot packed tight.

He turned into a gambling den wedged between a droid chop shop and a bar that smelled like antiseptic and regret. Sabacc tables filled the center of the room. Credits clinked. A Rodian cursed. Someone laughed too loud.

This he understood. If there was one thing he loved more than he hated Coruscant... it was gambling.

Lorn slid into an empty chair. He placed a thin stack of credits on the table. "Deal me in."

The dealer eyed him. "You new?"

"Passing through."

Cards hissed across the surface. Lorn let his shoulders loosen. He did not reach for the Force. Not yet. Gambling was one vice he allowed himself. Control wrapped in chance. Order hidden inside chaos.

Ace would know where to look.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Naniti
​

After the message was sent, the blue glow faded, and the market swallowed him back into rhythm. He slipped the datapad into his palm rather than his pocket; a tell he pretended was not a tell. His gaze drifted over the nearest row of vendors. Most of them looked like they were ready to scam the next person who blinked too slowly. Lysander blinked anyway.

A calm veneer was worn effortlessly, broadcasting without words. The kind of look that definitely didn’t betray the secret glances he stole at his datapad. Once. Then again.. alright, maybe four times.

People glanced his way like he'd personally offended them, probably because polished boots didn’t belong here. Club Cadaver was still on the table, after all. A little different than the waltzing they’d been practicing since Jutrand. He could adapt though. The blonde always did.

Then a voice he knew better than the crowd’s noise cut through the air, and the datapad was snapped shut. Weight shifted onto one leg.. right back into nonchalance.

“I said noodles,” the reply came, smooth at first..

And then the next line simply.. didn’t show up. Lysander’s mouth opened like he had something clever to say. The usual quips that forever hovered on the tongue weren’t arriving on cue. Of course he was stubborn enough to search for one anyway.

A tiny crease forming between the brows surely didn't mean defeat. His chin lifted playfully. “Well, you obviously answered to noodlehead, so clearly the name fits.”

The smile that surfaced was helpless, and he didn’t bother to smother it. Because it was one he seldom wore. Not at the academy while teaching, and not out in the field eliminating whoever the Covenant labeled as opposition.

His hands folded nearly behind his back; this was the only way to keep them from drifting towards hers, and well, he wasn’t giving Naniti that victory just yet.

“Besides, I wasn’t starving until you took your time.”

Food always followed them, no matter what planet they were terrorizing.

“You’ve already profiled half this street, haven’t you? Indulge me. Which stall is least likely to poison us tonight?”

​

 

[Ives]

// fancy art​

Club Cadaver, down below
A Bottomless Pit
x

Voltaic heavy isotope-driving basslines layered with abstract electronic melodies-rattled the walls of Club Cadaver's guts. This deepest level consisted entirely of brutalist concrete and sweating skin.

In the middle of it, Ives danced emptiness into his soul. The people around him appeared only in choppy sequences. Pulsing lights made them real only moments at a time. The world became real every other heartbeat, just to die in darkness and be made new again the next beat.

Ives reveled in the oblivion. So long as there was movement, it didn't matter what happened around him. Movement excised all capacity for thought until only instinct and sensation remained. The bassline shook his bones. Cold air brushed over his sweat-soaked shirt each time he jumped on aching feet. And the mass of dancing bodies radiated heat that bore down on him like a fever.

He'd come here to escape the wider world. He'd pay whatever price would come due tomorrow. Tonight, he damned it all and let profane emptiness consume him.

 

[Darth Miasma]

Azrael Asylum
Shortly before the Battle of Coruscant...

Evacuating an asylum full of villainous Force Users is a supremely complicated task. Special protocols had to be followed to ensure none of the inmates could use the opportunity to escape.

Darth Miasma was fitted with Force-nullifying restraints before she even left her cell, great heavy shackles that weighed on her slight frame, dragging her arms toward the ground and making it hard for her to walk upright. Her wings were pinned to her back, to prevent her from taking flight in transit, and her mouth was covered by a mask to keep her from biting anyone. She was escorted out by armed guards carrying ysalalmiri cages on their backs, into the broad daylight of Coruscant, where a transport awaited on a landing pad.

Ahead of her, another prisoner was being ushered up the loading ramp. At the top, Miasma glimpsed the faint oscillating glow of force cages. So we'll be herded into our stalls like cattle, she thought. So much for the enlightened Galactic Alliance.

It was her turn to board. She lurched forward, lugging her chains with every lumbering step. She wasn't sure where they would take her; probably to another facility on a planet not facing an imminent invasion. Perhaps security would be more lax. Or maybe it would be even more strict than here...

Behind her, an unmistakable sound ripped through the dull hum of starship engines and the background noise of Coruscant. Blaster fire. She turned, slowly, every movement a labor, and saw one of the guards lying dead on the ground. Another guard was holding the smoking gun, already turning it on another of his comrades as the betrayal was realized.

In the chaos that followed, Miasma didn't hesitate. She lunged for the dead guard, fumbling for his keys as more bodies fell around her. Someone kicked her away, freedom slipping from her grasp.

Realizing the danger, the pilot of the transport began to lift off. The traitorous guard, realizing his quarry was aboard, began firing on the vessel. There was an explosion; the ship banked right, one of its thrusters destroyed, and crashed into the landing pad. Miasma was still trying to crawl back to the corpse when everything went sideways, literally, as the pad began to tilt to one side. The corpses slid limply past her as she clawed desperately at the tarmac, grasping for something, anything that might keep her from flying off. But it was no use. She was slipping... and then she was falling, through the air, through Coruscant, plummeting into the unknown...

---

Somewhere in the depths of Coruscant
Present day​

When next she awoke, she was lying on a table. The room was dark save for the flickering surgical light directly above her. It reeked of blood and antiseptic and... something else. A scent that brought back memories half forgotten during her long incarceration.

Sith alchemy.

"Ah, you're awake," a voice said. "How are you feeling?"

She whipped her head around, spying the silhouette of a male figure in the darkness to her right. He stepped into the light. Though it had been twenty years since she first met Silas Fogg, he hadn't aged a day - courtesy of Sith alchemy. One of many abilities some would consider to be unnatural.

"You were dead, you know," Silas continued when she did not answer. "I brought you back to life."

"I've been dead before," she replied. "Three... No, four times now." At this rate she'd live more lives than a loth-cat before anyone did her in for good. "It's nothing special to me anymore."

His smirk was laced with contempt. "Still, a little gratitude wouldn't hurt." Reaching to one side, he held up the remnants of her restraints. "These were a pain to remove, but you should be feeling much better without them."

She stretched and sat up, testing her newly freed limbs and wings. Then, she used the Force to seize hold of Silas, lifting him off his feet. "You're about the last person I would've expected to come to my rescue," she growled. "So, tell me. What's in it for you?"

Silas grunted and strained against her hold, but could not escape her grasp. "A lot happened while you were out," he said. "Your eldest daughter ran off and joined the Jedi, while your eldest son joined the Sith."

"Eloise... Marcus..." she murmured. "Where are they now?"

"I don't know about her. But Marcus, I took him as my apprentice. He excelled in alchemy, but fell behind in all other fields. Much like you did, as I recall--!" Silas yelped as her grip tightened to a painful degree. "I did what I could, but it wasn't enough. There was a training exercise, an arena where they pitted the acolytes against each other in combat. He didn't even survive the first round..."

Miasma's eyes went wide, green irises already turning a sickly, toxic shade as the Dark Side returned to her. But no matter how hard she concentrated, searching the universe entire, she could not feel Marcus. All that power, and her son was still dead.

"Who?" she whispered. "Who did it? Who killed my son?"

Silas, sensing that there was no chance of survival for a failure such as him, decided to let her have the name. "Qyssiyana."

There was a sickening crunch as she snapped his neck. Before his body hit the floor, she was already bounding for the exit, spreading her wings and taking flight. Darth Miasma had but one goal: to make Qyssiyana pay for what she had done!

Qyssiyana​

 

[Tatiana Sah]

Tatiana observed the physical effects the liquor had on Varin's person as he spoke. They both then spared a moment to look at the text on the bottle. She recognized the script at Huttese, but there hadn't been enough time for her to learn all the galactic languages yet. Though from what she'd read it wouldn't be amiss to learn that one sooner than later; the Hutts were notorious criminals, but they had broad influence at The Rim.

When the bartender set down a glass at Varin's gesture, the smile on Tatiana's lips widened.

"Why not? Do you refrain from philosophical or social prohibition, or out of concern for your health?" she asked regarding why he didn't drink [often]. Meanwhile, she reached over to pour half a shot glass worth of The Clear Stuff. As the bottle was set back down, her hand lingered as her gaze observed the sweat on Varin's temple.

A little tilt of the head followed Varin struggling to keep her in focus. The way his expression worked she almost wondered if he somehow knew her, but just as quickly he averted his attention.

"Grazie."

With that, Tatiana reached out to toss back the sample. The click of the glass atop the bar followed her blue eyes widening. The blond's lips moved slightly as if working through the taste or content of what had passed by her lips.

Her head cocked a bit to the side before her gaze swung over to Varin. "Is this fit for Human consumption?" A few blinks followed the question before a quick shake of her head. "In an hour you might be on the floor drinking this." Potent even at the start, she could only imagine the effect it would have once it got to the intestines.

"Before you blackout, my name is Tatiana. May I know yours?"

This was certainly go to be a party to remember if they were drinking something so potent already.

Varin Mortifer | OPEN

 

[Naniti]

Naniti's face scrunched up as Lysander stopped at admitting to having said noodles. What was that supposed to mean? Or be? Who else would have sent that message using his datapad?

The Togruta snorted as she stopped within arm's reach of the man. Blue eyes narrowed in studious regard of the criminal before her. "We'll see about that." Some effort would need to be made to find an appropriate name for Lysander. And he wasn't getting called 'Professor'! Sure, it might string for a Sith, but Naniti happened to like studying things and she didn't need to degrade a field she actually enjoyed.

Besides, Lysander would probably like it. Especially just to spite her.

She stepped in just a little closer as she peered up at him. Did she know he was restraining himself? Was she just trying to elicit a reaction? Whatever the cause, the violet woman did smile even while she stared.

"The one that knows a Togruta can bite," Naniti snapped her teeth shut, "and that her last would be on their neck." A soft chuckle danced in the back of her throat at the suggestion.

With a soft clearing of the throat, she turned a to the side and then pointed at a stall two down. "Let's go there." Naniti leaned in a little closer to add quietly, "Their cooking didn't smell rank."

Lysander von Ascania

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

Club Cadaver
Tags: Anet Raine

She hated Coruscant.

Adelle had landed in a spaceport much closer to the surface, although nowadays the surface was just as much a problem as some of the lower levels. Perhaps even worse. She had stressed to Phantom it was imperative she stay safe on board and for once, the spukami listened, albeit sullenly.

If it wasn’t for the information she needed, Adelle wouldn’t be here herself.

1313 was a desperate gamble. Adelle walked through the entrance to Club Cadaver, letting the noise and chaos wash over her. Voices layered on top of each other, alcohol fumes competed with smoke from spice and cigarras, bodies pressed against each other. She had prepared for this as much as she could—a description of the style of place, the demographic of the clients, a fitting outfit—but it was still overwhelming. She hadn’t been to a club in a while.

Adelle rolled her shoulders beneath the cropped white jacket, black sleeveless tunic underneath shifting with the motion. Boots hit the floor with barely a sound as she walked to the bar, eyes and ears open for anyone that might know something. As many dark side presences as there were here, she was grateful she kept hers small, unnoticeable. She wanted answers, not questions.

Finally, she managed to get the bartender’s attention and ordered a Corellian ale. Adelle leaned against a stool, careful not to lean on the bar and get stains on the jacket. She listened, to the Force and the words being said around her.

“... kriffin’ cheap chit alcohol…”

“Go ahead, give it a try.”

“You can have the first line, yeah?”

Someone with pale blue skin sat in a booth. Not Chiss, the hair was wrong. Pantoran, maybe. Something in her face suggested observation, data collection. The pint of Corellian ale was set on the bar top in front of her and Adelle tossed creds onto the sticky surface. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Adelle got a bartender’s attention again and nodded at the woman in the booth. “Her next drink is on me.”

Information gathering was a slow game. Subtlety, something natural, something that wouldn’t look out of place. Idly, Adelle wondered if the people she was hunting were already here. And hunting her.

 

[Iandre Athlea]

Club Cadaver — Level 1313 @open

The bass hit her first. It was not sound exactly, but a physical pressure that rolled through the durasteel floor and climbed her spine in steady and relentless waves. It functioned less like music and more like an atmosphere designed to overwhelm conscious thought and replace it with raw impulse. Club Cadaver did not ask permission to exist because it simply took it.

Light fractured across every surface in the chamber where neon strips, holographic projections, and rotating beams cut through clouds of vapor and smoke. These lights painted the surrounding bodies in shifting colors that never stayed long enough to be trusted. The air was thick with a cloying mixture of perfume, sweat, stimulant vapor, and recycled oxygen pushed past its mechanical limits.

Iandre stepped inside and stood there for a moment. She was not frozen or hesitant, but entirely present.

She wore a dark, floor-length coat made of heavy, matte-finish synth-hide that seemed to swallow the club's erratic neon glow. Underneath the coat, her charcoal-grey tunic was tailored for movement, featuring subtle reinforced ribbing that hinted at protective padding without the bulk of traditional armor. Her dark hair was pulled back into a severe, tight braid that kept her profile clean and her vision unobstructed. She wore tapered combat trousers tucked into low-profile durasteel-toed boots, polished to a dull luster and designed for a silent, steady gait across the metal grates of the lower levels.

Her coat fell cleanly around her frame, appearing understated and deliberate in contrast to the excess around her. She wore no armor and no uniform, offering nothing that announced her rank or her history. She was simply a woman who looked far too composed for a place built on losing control.

A few heads turned, but not many. It was just enough.

She moved forward at an unhurried pace, weaving through dancers and clusters with quiet confidence. People shifted without realizing why, making small subconscious adjustments that opened space for her passage. She did not shove, nor did she apologize; she simply walked. The main floor pulsed around her, bodies packed close, movements syncing and desyncing in constant waves. Above them, VIP booths hovered behind transparisteel partitions where deals were made in whispers and credits changed hands faster than smiles.

She did not go there yet. Instead, she angled toward the central bar.

The counter was a long curve of illuminated synthglass lined three deep with patrons and scattered with half-finished drinks. The bartender barely looked up as she approached.

"Something clean," Iandre said evenly, her voice pitched just loud enough to be heard over the thrum. "No additives."

A pause followed, then a glance, and finally a nod. While she waited, she let her awareness widen. She was not forceful or probing, but simply listening.

Arguments simmered near the dance floor while a transaction took place in a shadowed booth. A pair of enforcers leaned too casually against a pillar with eyes that never stopped moving. Someone nearby was one bad decision away from violence. Club Cadaver was not chaos, but rather a form of curated instability.

Her drink arrived. It was clear, cold, and honest. She wrapped her fingers around the glass but did not drink yet. Instead, she leaned lightly against the bar and let her gaze sweep the room with quiet and thoughtful precision. To anyone watching, she looked like another patron enjoying the atmosphere. To anyone who knew better, she looked like someone who had already memorized every exit.

A faint smile touched her lips. If Level 1313 wanted to test her resolve, she was more than willing to oblige.

 

[Anet Raine]

Direct: Adelle Bastiel
Soon: Reina Daival | Quinn Varanin
Wearing: The Fit | Choker

Anet waited patiently for her order to arrive. She, naturally, cooked up something tricky to give the bartender a hard time. When the waiter droid arrived, she fished out her payment.

"That will be unnecessary," said the droid with rather smooth programming. "Another customer has already paid." Of course, there was no elaboration, and the droid waddled off to serve other customers. Busy, busy night as always.

Anet quirked a brow and looked around. Would this mysterious buyer be someone she knew?

Well - there was Vestra, but she was entirely too drunk and too interested in the Kiffar.

Varin wasn't the type, either, and appeared preoccupied with another woman. There were others, of course, but no likely suspects as far as she could tell. At this point, Anet's exploration of the space would be painfully obvious as her eyes panned across the room. Slowly. Methodically. She raised her glass and took a gentle sip.

 

[Romi Jade]

LEVEL 1313
Coruscant​

She came in through uninteresting freight lanes, riding the blind side of a garbage scow whose transponder flickered between registry codes. No one cared to scan debris, not when it was this much of it.

Level 1313 swallowed her the way it swallowed everything -- sound first, then light. The air was wet with oil, old smoke, and other things. Neon signs buzzed in half-languages. There was a body laying facedown in a gutter trench; no one checked if it still breathed.

She kept her hood low, and her presence muted and suppressed; shrouded in dark.

Her path had been twisted every which way; things here were so tight, and nearly every block and turn resembled each other. She veered left as just a silhouette, slipping into a market artery where the stalls had long since rotted into just frames. A flickering holosign buzzed above her—half an advertisement, half a warning. Someone had scrawled over it in ash something she couldn't make out, but seemed like a warning.

She stuck to what was familiar. She didn't slow. Some blocks away...she estimated based on what looked and felt familiar.

The entrance to the old base she was looking for wasn't marked. It never had been. A dead-end corridor behind a spice den.

She'd been walking for a few blocks at this point, slinking through bodies.

The corridor started to narrow here, ceiling lower, pipes sweating condensation that dripped in slow, uneven rhythms. The mural on the far wall was barely visible now beneath grime and burn marks -- but she knew it. She'd chosen this district because it was forgotten even before the Sith takeover, chit, even before the Imperial takeover.

She paused at the intersection.

Listened.

The city groaned around her. Distant engines. A scream cut short. The hum of failing power grids.

No alarms.

Just the heavy, watchful dark.

Romi adjusted her hood and stepped into the final stretch of corridor. Before long she found herself in a familiar space.

She pressed her palm against the wall.

Nothing.

For a moment, she wondered if a faction had already found it. If the Hidden Path had bled out here like it had everywhere else.

A beat. Then...

A pulse.

Faint. Mechanical. Recognizing her.

The duracrete shifted inward with a tired hiss. Dust spewed out and then fell like ash.

Inside, the dark waited exactly as she had left it.

No power. No chatter. No movement.

Just the bones of a network that had once ferried fugitives, Force-sensitives, children -- off-world and beyond reach.

--- ​