Dominion Welcome to the Republic, Beaches! [THR Dom of Truuine, Gydine and Nahkisa]

[Jared Starchaser]

dice

 

[Brooke Waters]

Landing the skimmer was not a matter of huge consequence, and from there Brooke found herself making her way towards the beach. For no other reason than serendipity and the views. And the fact that Brooke loved the sea. She lived for it, and there was always a part of her that would fight to connect to it. The skimmer ride was fine, but there were so many more aspects of the sea that was important.

There were others here, and that was fine, the blonde was going to do her best to eavesdrop, but she was going to keep herself on the guard and watching.

Something else was going on in this world, and she needed to protect her corals, so she could connect to the beasts of this world. Creatures she could and her kind could use, commune with. Standing with her feet in the shallow waves, she was communing with the ecosystem on her own.

 

[Kito]

//: Cerys Dyn //: Sethran Solivar //:
//: Attire //:

Wealthy.

It was something Kito was not. She didn't have much to her name despite coming from a clan that was well regarded on Kro Var. It would probably mean something if they ever expanded outward… or didn't get wiped out. The lavish halls of her homestead, the pastures that swayed as the spring wind blew through them — all of it was a distant memory.

Looking at her hand, the young ronin could still feel the tall grass brushing against her fingertips. The voice of her brother calling her for training echoed in the breeze.

Kito wondered why, now of all times, was she remembering this. Was it the faces that moved around her, the scents of food lingering in the air? Or was she just suddenly homesick?

The Black Sun had created a wonderful world for the wealthy; their money could easily fill the coffers of anyone in need. Though with the syndicate, it only meant you'd be spending your credits, not earning them. Kito kept her wits about her, not wanting to fall prey to a swindler or a woman with velvet timbre.

That happened once before, but it was worth it.

Her mission was simple enough, though she wished her Master would have taken her to the beach. It would have been more enjoyable than this place. Still, she needed to follow the training and align with what the Order wanted and needed. It was easier when she was on her own… when she was with the Lightsworn.

Maybe that's why she was feeling homesick. Nothing felt like home, well, nothing except…

She kept walking, trying to keep her mind focused on the present mission.

There was someone to find, but with the vague description and no photo, Kito was essentially blind to it all.

She stopped, watching as an awkward girl waddled about her job. Kito chuckled lightly under her breath as the girl seemed more lost than in tune with her surroundings.

"Is everything okay?" She asked casually, leaning forward with a warm smile.

She had been practicing it.

 

[Bettany Sal-Soren]

Location: beach house
Objective: enjoy the beach
Tag: Raymjarr Kortu Lily Decoria Lily Rhodes

"Thanks" she smiled, and blushed. She was dealing with a fan then, it mudied the relationship a little but he was only here today so she could just roll with it and if became a problem she could just ask for him not to be assigned to her again, wouldnt be the first time she had encountered a security guard that wasnt quite the right fit. "I got best supporting actor for she never loved. I thought i might my first lead award for Hearts but the director isnt in with the academy so his films tend to get passed over a bit. Its all very political. Did well in the box office though and the critics liked me at least." she laughed and kicked some water before looking out across the sea at some people on jetskis.

She looked at him and puckered her lips to one side. "Jetskis sounds like a brilliant idea, except im not really dressed for it am I? Hmm." she looked thoughtful for a moment while she considered running back to the apartment to change into a bathing suit. "Nah, maybe tomorrow. I could do with a drink though, if you dont mind. White rum, coconut and melarune liquor please. And an umbrella " she gestured towards a cabana a little further down the beach. It was a little test for him to see how well they would get along. Was he willing to overlook the matter of eight months that prevented her going to the bar herself?

 

[Lily Rhodes]

Lily had her eyes cast downward, picking idly at her nails as she walked, a frown creasing her forehead. She looked up blinking in surprise when a voice reached her. If she hadn’t said anything Lily would have probably walked straight into her but that wasn’t what caught Lily off guard.

“Lily…what?” she blinked and shook her head, realising that the white haired woman was giving her her name. “Oh…umm sure, I guess.” Brown eyes studied the woman, as if weighing her up. There was nothing malicious about her, no ill intent, nothing. She was genuine in her want to be kind which was…rare.

“I’m Lily,” she said finally, extending her hand to shake “And I swear I’m not yanking your chain. My name is also Lily. What are the odds?”

She smiled but it was tight, weighted with the decision she couldn’t seem to bring herself to make. “Do you often approach random strangers and ask them if they wanna talk?”

Lily Decoria Bettany Sal-Soren Raymjarr Kortu Brooke Waters

 

[Raymjarr Kortu]

Current Outfit
Royal Standard (RS-29)

Ray curled his toes his face scrunched with disgust as he felt the grains of sand getting inside of his shoes. Part of him wished that he could summon a large vacuum and suck up all of the sand in Naboo. Yeah the cycle of life will be messed up but Rays hatred of sand overrode all sense of logic or care for that matter. Bettany didnt mind based on how she was gracefully walking on the beach. She may not be who Ray thought but beneath the haughty personality was the graceful charm that she displayed on Holotv.

“Yeah that was a great win,” Ray said when Bettany said she won an award for She Never loved. “But according to the gate keeping old people who are still stuck in the clockwork revolution days, the award is nowhere near as prestigious as the Galaxy awards.”

Ray shook his head. “Those guys always want to dictate taste while ignoring what the people truly want.” He said. “But at end of the day, people go to the theater to see what they want not the critics. And you’re a credit making machine.”

He was speaking less of a fan and more of an analyst. Though Ray was a fan of Bettany, he was something of a Cinephile mainly through his uncle who was a producer. The two would spend all night watching movies and his uncle would teach Ray the finer aspects of holomovie making.

Bettany suggested that they should go to the bar for drink which caused Ray to frown. “Are you sure?” Ray asked. “I don’t know. The age to get in is 21. Something we’re not.”

He had a feeling that Bettany would be insistent on going.

Bettany Sal-Soren Lily Decoria Lily Rhodes

 

[Raymjarr Kortu]

Roll post. XD

 

[Sethran Solivar]

He was pondering the precarious nature of such establishments when someone entered the room looking inexplicably different from the rest of those present. She wore an outfit that belied her position as a member of staff, but she waddled in it and he discerned a feeling of nervousness coming from her through his emotional connection to the Force. This outfit was clearly not of her choosing. It didn't fit with the rest of the staff, either. Were they trying to sell something more than drinks here? That thought bothered him. He'd dealt with his fair share of traffickers over the years and the worst were the ones that dealt in people. If THAT was happening here, he'd have to put a stop to it.

The work she was doing told him she'd been tasked with being a hostess. That partially explained the attire. People, especially males, were more inclined to spend when enticed in such a manner. He found it revolting, personally. She didn't look bad, but he didn't approve of the way she was being used by the resort. It didn't matter to him if she had, potentially, chosen to do that. The fact they would stoop to such levels to obtain money either meant desperation or a lack of consideration, probably both, which meant she was just being used.

He felt like he ought to intervene, and he started to lean away from the counter, but the moment he did, another woman appeared, not wearing a similar outfit, and began to speak with the Togruta. He was curious as to what they were saying, and tried to eavesdrop without appearing obvious. Not hard to do as long as you avoid staring at someone. He was also pretty sure that both of them had some level of sensitivity to the Force. It made him wonder if they were there for pleasure or business. If the latter, were they friend or foe? He was there because something was off with the place, so if they ended up being foe's, well, that would be a twist he didn't desire.

Sipping from his glass, he did spare a casual glance towards the two women, but was mostly trying to watch who was watching them. Sometimes you could pick out the bad seeds in the room by who wasn't watching. Which, of course, meant he could be misconstrued as a bad seed. A risk he was willing to take. It was better than staring, at least in his opinion. She deserved more respect.

Cerys Dyn and Kito

 

[Cerys Dyn]

Every step was a gamble. The synth-silk seam at her hip strained with a faint, audible creak that made her heart hammer against her ribs. It wasn't just the fit — it was the vibe. The manager’s oily grin felt heavier than the tray of glowing Corellian ales he shoved toward her.

"The customers are asking for you," he pushed the tray forward, metal scraping against the counter. "Don't disappoint."

Cerys didn't answer. She couldn't, not without risking a rip. She just turned, the movement stiff and deliberate. The bar was a cacophony of smoke and the low thrum of a distant power generator. Being Force-sensitive was supposed to be a gift, but here, it was a prickling heat on the back of her neck. She could feel them — the hungry, wandering gazes — sticking to her like grease.

"Is everything OK?"

The voice was close. Cerys felt the girl’s concern before she heard the words, a soft ripple in the local hum of the Force. She tried to pivot away, her brow knitting into a sharp line as she hissed over her shoulder, "What's it to you, huh?"

Seeing a few Rodians at a nearby table pause their conversatin, she forced her lips into a brittle, unpracticed smile — the "pretty" mask they paid for. Then, leaning in until her breath hit the girl’s ear, she whispered, "I'm squeezed into a suit two sizes too small while creeps like that"...she jerked a sharp chin toward a man nursing a lonely drink at the bar..."watch me like I’m the nightly entertainment. I want to scream, but the fabric would probably give out first."[/COLOR]

Kito Sethran Solivar​

 

[Taera 'Calypso']

Tags: Lancel Atria

Gyndine was not first on Calypso’s list of vacation spots. Or even second or third.

To be perfectly honest, it hadn’t been on her list at all.

However.

It was as far from Sith space as possible but still within sight of High Republic borders. So when she’d seen an advertisement for The Trixkellion resort and that it had now opened its doors to the general public—or those that could afford it—she’d jumped at the chance. Calypso had passed along the invitation to her mother-in-law, but the woman had refused and said she preferred the comforts of home to relax.

They both knew the real reason. The probate court would be reaching its decision on who inherited the title soon.

Naturally, Calypso then extended the invitation to her brother-in-law Lancel and his fiance, Princess Cavallo. It was familial duty to ensure smooth sailing between them, since Faustus had seen fit to perish before he could explain his thinking to literally anyone else. Lancel had accepted but Calypso hadn’t actually heard if Gwen was joining him.

An interesting development, to be sure.

Calypso leaned back in the sauna, breathing through the humidity and the just-barely-tolerable heat. The resort robe she was in fell open far more than would be modest but she had this particular room all to herself. And since it still wouldn’t be indecent, she didn’t quite care to correct the new deep V neckline nearly reaching her navel. So far, this had been an excellent change of pace. Especially after Moorja.

The fine hairs on the nape of her neck prickled for a moment. Calypso sighed, recognizing the sixth sense as her Force sensitivity. This vacation had better not turn into another Moorja situation or Ashla help the owner that ran this resort. Calypso would be quite upset.

 

[Lancel Atria]

He should not have accepted. When he did, he should not have left Guinevere out of the loop. She thought him to be on a trip to visit an old military buddy. The partial truth had made the lie easier to sell.

As he walked through the halls of the facility, Lancel found himself regretting the decision. There had been multiple points at which he could have stopped this. He could have claimed a prior engagement, a sudden illness, or simply a lack of interest in such opulence while his brother's seat still sat empty. Yet, the memory of Calypso's invitation...the subtle, honeyed weight of her words...had acted like a tractor beam on his resolve.

He stopped before the heavy, dark-wood doors of the thermal suites. His reflection in a nearby decorative panel showed a man who looked composed, a noble of the Atria line, but he could feel the frantic rhythm of his pulse against his soft collar. He needed to shed the tension before he saw her again. If he didn't find his centre, he would be a glass house in her presence, his every forbidden thought visible through the cracks of his composure.

Stepping inside, the air shifted instantly, thick with the scent of cedar and eucalyptus. He moved with a practiced, steady gait toward the most secluded sauna at the end of the hall. He didn't want an audience. He wanted the heat to burn the guilt out of him.

Lancel pulled open the door to the private chamber. A wall of steam billowed out, obscuring the interior in a hazy, white veil. He didn't look closely at the figure already reclined on the cedar bench, assuming it was merely another guest lost in the fog. With a silent, disciplined nod to the etiquette of shared silence, he moved to the opposite side.

He sat, the heat immediately stinging his skin, and leaned his head back against the wood. He closed his eyes, exhaling a long, ragged breath, unaware that the woman he fled toward and now away from was breathing the very same air just a few feet away.

Taera 'Calypso'
​

 

[Bastila Sal-Soren]

The world suddenly, painfully existed in violent fragments. She had felt the hand grab her, the removal of the oppressive crush around her; replaced with the bitter chill. Snow had started flashing past her peripheral vision, a distraction to the brutal rhythm of the ground beneath her as Dominic hauled her out of the ice, the rough drag of fabric tightening under his grip. That soon became the pain of every step jarred through her frame as she was hoisted up into a carry. She could not feel reality. Her body had become an object, something being transported and foreign rather than an extension of her mind. Water streamed from her sleeves and froze almost instantly along the seams. Her braid lay heavy and rigid against her collarbone, already stiff with ice.

Air refused to fill her properly. Each inhale came shallow and sharp, scraping her throat like broken glass. Her lungs felt smaller than they should have been, as though the mountain had tightened invisible hands around her ribs, crushing her slowly in an embrace surely intent on killing her.

The slope pitched upward. She felt it in the angle of her spine, in the way she tilted backward against her rescuer. He nearly lost his footing once, she sensed the stutter in his momentum, the shift of weight, the violent correction; but he did not release her. The urgency in him was no longer composed. It radiated through his grip, through the pace he forced himself to maintain despite the ice beneath his boots.

“I…” The word fractured against her teeth, jaw trembling so hard it felt detached from her skull. She didn’t even know if the word was translating from her mind to her lips, “I was winning.”

It sounded absurd even to her ears, thin and misplaced against the sound of wind cutting through the trees.

Somewhere beyond the blur of motion she saw white against white, it was small, poised, and unhurried. The Vash-fox was following them. It did not dart or panic. It kept pace at a distance, ears angled forward, tail low and steady. It was watching with an intensity that was unmatched by anything else Bastila had ever experienced. Maybe she was truly losing her mind.

“Stupid,” she managed to say, though she could not have said whether she meant the animal or herself.

The cave mouth appeared as a darker seam in the ridge ahead, jagged and imperfect against the snow-bright world. The temperature shifted as they crossed into its shallow shelter. While it didn’t gain warmth it did cut the wind, causing sound to dull around them. She was on the floor now, stone replaced snow beneath her as she was roughly pulled a few more metres.

Then they stopped and Bastila felt nothing but the uncontrollable pain of cold.

Hands were at her shoulders, then at her face. Friction against her arms, forceful and insistent, attempting to bring warmth back into muscle that no longer obeyed. She felt herself being repositioned, upright, propped against rock. Her head tipped forward, then back again as someone refused to let it remain slack.

She could not fully process the words being directed at her, but she understood the tone; they were sharp and commanding, edged with something dangerously close to fear. Every one of them pulling at the fraying edges of her awareness. Making sure she knew the message being said.

Stay.

The instruction vibrated through her more than it sounded. She knew then exactly who it was, or at least who her mind had decided it was. Her fingers twitched weakly against his sleeve. Grabbing hold of what she could. “You’re… not allowed to look heroic,” she whispered, lips barely moving. “It upsets the narrative...”

The darkness at the edges of her vision thickened, not like sleep but like ink diffusing into water, spreading from the periphery inward. The sound of their surroundings stretched thin. All sensation dulled further.

Then the cold changed, it was not receding. Instead it spread, fast and painful across her whole existence.

– – – – –​

She sat up with an intake of breath that felt like she suddenly needed all the air in the galaxy to be alive again. Around her there was no cave. There was no snow. No wind clawing at her lungs. There was just…nothing.

The ground beneath her was black and faintly reflective, like obsidian coated in a thin film of still water. When she shifted her weight, faint ripples moved outward in perfect, silent circles that never quite reached a boundary. The surface looked submerged, and it felt submerged; yet her clothes remained dry. The air still held the same oppressive chill as the mountain, but it did not bite.

She gave a look to her side, where the horizon refused to form. There was just darkness extending in every direction, mind boggling depth without any sky at all. Then she looked down at herself. She was dry and whole. No breathing without pain.

“Oh chit.” She muttered. “Not again.”

The Vash-fox stood several meters away, even though Bastila swore it wasn’t there a moment ago. It was no longer just a pale white against the snow; it seemed lit from within, fur carrying a subtle luminescence that traced its outline against the dark. Its eyes were deeper here, their blue almost liquid.

“You again,” Bastila said quietly and she noted how her voice didn’t echo, it just seemed absorbed by the never ending openness beyond.

The fox turned and began to walk. It’s paws made no ripple on the surface of the water like floor, unlike Bastila as she rose to stand, sending circles of motion out into the darkness.

“Don’t you dare lead me to another…whatever you did.” She muttered as she followed the creature. Each step carried that strange sensation of walking across something that should give way but did not. The cold here sharpened her thoughts instead of dulling them. Memory rose cleanly: the crack of ice, the shock of water, the silhouette against white, the weight of his arms pulling her upward.

Ahead of them, the darkness thinned as they approached what may have been the edge, materialising from nothing and then she noticed it wasn’t light, it was fading into absence. A narrow corridor formed where the black seemed reluctant to exist, as though something vast displaced it. The air shifted around that space, heavier, charged with waiting.

The fox glanced back at her with a serious look, no longer playful as it guided her forward.

“Look I’ve been in enough visions to know where I need to go.” she said, but went quiet as the fox did not answer, but it stepped closer to the thinning dark.

Behind her, somewhere impossibly distant yet intimately near; something tugged.

Then a shape formed within the darkness behind her. A cadence she knew intimately, the same cadence that could fill a Senate chamber with quiet authority or fracture into something far more human when stripped of audience. The pull intensified and she hesitated to go any further.

The fox stopped at the edge of the corridor, sitting down facing the emptiness. Beyond it lay depth that did not promise warmth or cruelty, only vastness. It turned and looked at her again. Insistent that she must go forward.

Behind her, the tether tightened. Like hands against her arms. A presence refusing to relinquish its claim.

The dark corridor ahead seemed endless and loose, the force pulling her backward felt immediate.

Bastila stood suspended between them, breath steady in this place, breath failing somewhere else, aware that whichever direction she chose would not simply determine survival, but something far more binding. Then she heard it and her world simply stopped.

The sound of children laughing, and a voice she knew oh so well, yet filled with an older, calmer tone than she had ever heard.

“We’ve done alright Bastila…”

– – – – –​

Outside the cave, at the edge of the treeline, the Vash-fox in the physical world remained motionless. Snow gathered along its back in a fine dusting, but it did not shake it off. It simply sat and watched the cave mouth without blinking.

Waiting.

OUTFIT: XoXo | TAG: Dominic Praxon EQUIPMENT:

​

 

[Dominic Praxon]

The fire he had built was pathetic.

Dominic sat with his back against the jagged stone, the meagre pile of scrub and broken branches he'd scavenged hissing and spitting as it fought for life. It provided no real warmth, only a flickering, amber light that carved deep hollows into Bastila's pale features.

Outside, the arrow of branches he'd laid was likely already being buried by the snow.

His right arm was all agony. The sleeve was a stiff, frozen casing around his skin where the lake had claimed him, and his hand felt less like flesh and more like shattered glass. But he didn't move it. He couldn't. He used his good arm to pull Bastila tighter against his chest, tucking her head under his chin.

"You're missing the briefing, Bastila," he rasped, his voice thin and raw. He tried to summon the ghost of his Senate floor authority. "The Outbound Flight initiative...it's moving to the next phase. The logistics are...they're a nightmare. You'd hate the paperwork. You'd tell me I'm overcomplicating things...no...probably tell me I am wasting my time."

He waited for a retort. Or a roll of her eyes. For anything. All he got was silence, broken occasionally by the erratic, shallow whistle of her breath.

"I'm supposed to be at the gondola base," he whispered, his eyes fixed on the dying embers, "I'm supposed to be discussing trade routes and the preservation of the Mid Rim. I'm supposed to be the man my father expects. The man the Republic needs."

He shifted, his frozen fingers twitching against her shoulder. The pain in his hand was nothing compared to the sudden, violent surge of honesty that tore through his composure. The 'Representative' died in the dark of that cave, leaving only the man behind.

"But I look at you, and I forget the Republic. Everything else just feels like a farce. It terrifies me."

He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his voice muffled by the damp wool of her clothes and the sheer weight of his own misplaced longing.

He closed his eyes, his mind betraying him with a vision of a life that felt like a fever dream — a house with high ceilings, the smell of Naboo's summer rain, and the sound of a laughter that hadn't been trained for interviews. He thought of her name, not as a title, but as a whispered promise past midnight.

"You can't hear me. Can you?" he choked out. He head tilted back, resting against the unforgiving stone wall. He thought to test his theory, perhaps pulling some reaction from her slumbering form by spilling the honesty he felt welling up within.

"We are terrible for each other. I am terrible to you. You give it back in spades, fair. But I don't deserve the passion you throw my way. Force," he pushed his chin back into her frozen hair. Even in this frozen state, his scenes will filled with the aroma of her. "I am a liar...Bastila. It's what I do. That's politics But Force be damned if my biggest lie isn't about how much you mean to me."

The confession hung in the air.

"You are a ghost, Bastila. Even when you're standing right in front of me, you are haunting a life I have not lived. I keep trying to build a world where you don't matter to me. One where the 'Praxon' name is the only thing that carries importance, but then you fall through the ice, and I realize I'd burn every bridge in the Republic give you heat."

A gust of wind howled at the cave mouth, and the fire shuddered, nearly dying. Dominic's expression hardened, the 'immaculate' mask attempting to reform over a fractured soul. He looked at his ruined transponder, then back at the woman who was slipping away from him.

His voice turned clinical, brittle as the ice on the lake. "Fate is a fantasy for people who don't have to run a galaxy. We are cogs in a machine that doesn't care if we're warm...or loved. This...this...it's just the hypothermia talking. When the sun hits our faces again, we will fulfil our duty to the Republic."

"Stay with me, Bastila. Live...to walk away again."

Bastila Sal-Soren​