Populate What’s a God to a Nonbeliever (BSS Populate of Empty Hex)

[Sibylla Abrantes]

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Objective Two
Nar Shaddaa | Fashion Show
A Little Party Never Killed Nobody
Interacting with: Aiden Porte Fenn Stag

Sibylla smiled at Aiden in quiet understanding, grateful that he trusted her judgement for now. As he spoke to a new comer beside them, Sibylla returned to her attention to Fenn.

There was something deliberate in the way he spoke, as though each word had to be weighed before being released into the air. It was not the tone of a man who enjoyed conversation. It was the tone of a man who endured it.

And the way he spoke of Mauve du Vain held a tone that bordered on deference. It was not flattery born of business, nor the empty loyalty bought by credits, but something deeper. Earned. The kind of devotion men built when they had nothing else left to build on.

And though the scars were not visible, Sibylla could sense them, old ones layered deep beneath the surface, staining as much as they shaped. It was the subtle things that told her more about him than any words could.

Oh, he was dangerous, of that there was no doubt. It showed in the way his muscles tensed beneath the fine clothing, in the faint hum of biotics and metal working in rhythm beneath his skin. A warrior. A solider. A fighter. But it was also there in how his voice softened, and the effort he seemed to take to hold a normal cadence in his speech.

He was trying.

And that, more than anything, spoke of the man behind the armor despite the way her pulse betrayed her with its quiet insistence.

"Well," Sibylla said lightly, her tone touched with sincerity, "thank you, Fenn. I appreciate your candor."

That hazel gaze lingered a moment longer. There was pain there, behind the tempered calm. Guilt, even. Whatever shadow haunted him, it had been earned the way his loyalty had, perhaps through blood and loss. It made her tone gentler when she spoke again, curiosity threading through it.

"You speak of Miss Mauve with great conviction. Forgive me if I overstep, but I find myself curious." Her dark head tilted slightly as she did her best to keep her tone politely conversational, a small smile curving over her lips in genuine interest.

"What is it that convinces a man to follow a cause such as hers? Decadence over vice... progress over chaos. I imagine that kind of vision like hers requires a certain kind of faith in a world that thrives in shadows. Or more aptly, courage."

All the while, Corde's voice echoed in Sibylla's mind, reminding her that this was a terrible idea. That she should have spoken with Aurelian first.

And perhaps it was. But Sibylla had made a career out of stepping into rooms others feared to enter, of smiling through unease until she found common ground to stand upon. She hadn't come here expecting to find Kalantha, not truly, but if there was information to be gathered or a deal to be quietly set into motion, she would not waste the opportunity.

And if that opportunity presented itself through Fenn, then she would take it.

 

[Fenn Stag]

A REJECT

Sibylla Abrantes​

"You speak of Miss Mauve with great conviction. Forgive me if I overstep, but I find myself curious."

The words hung in the air for a moment. Fenn did not look over at her- though her beauty would prompt him normally. The words she spoke overtook his desire to look, to stare, imagine. It was a fair question, one that Fenn asked himself. In the grand scheme of things, yes, the Black Sun was by most definitions "bad". But-

So were his people. So was he. He was a broken man without a nation, an Empire, a family, a home. All his life he had fought and fought, and more aptly, that's what he was created to do. The Republic made him and hundreds more like him simply to be a slave army to fight their wars. A template of war brought by one of the galaxy's deadliest, Preliat Mantis. He was a perfect clone. No aging. No genome correction. A perfect copy. And all that wrought him-

Was a curse to suffer. He had suffered plenty. The collapse of the Republic, years adrift as a child. No mother, no father, no family. Stealing, fighting, scamming his way to eat through the days. And it was only through adoption by the Mandalorians, that he was able to survive and then live. He worked farms, he trained. Then the Enclave came, hiding in shadows away from the gaze of the galaxy. Trying to restore what his people lost. Partly, due to his father's fault. They all died, or left him. Fenn was alone again.

Then came the Protectors, and the end result the same. Infighting. Years spent fighting Jedi, Sith, Empires, all for nothing. Even so far as saving millions of lives inadvertently with a vaccine for the Dark Harvest virus being developed from his blood after becoming infected... with nothing to show for it. The Crusaders came- but Fenn was not what they wanted. They did not want Mandalorians like him. He rejected them and they rejected him-

And, he killed their champion, Hakon Fett. He was sure they either were hunting him, or hated him.

And in all of that- he found himself again, with nothing.

No family.

No home. ​

No purpose.
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His eyes glossed over on how to vocalize all of that, how the Black Sun became his refuge. They did not judge him. They did not hate him for what he did. Who he was made from. What he suffered from- the voices, the hallucinations. They only asked him to make use of his skills, and appreciated him for it. They gave him money, wealth, power, purpose, and familiarity. They actually liked him under the light of the Black Sun.

He turned his head towards Sibylla Abrantes - the moments that passed long enough for her to know that he was thinking long about his answer.

"My people- the Mandalorians, have fallen apart, shattered, thrown to the winds of the galaxy every which-way. I endured loss after loss- until, the Black Sun under her-" He stopped to point over at Mauve du Vain . "Leadership, her organization, took me in. I know they are not all good people, even honorable. But-" Another pause. A long, solemn thought. Uncomfortable silence wrestling with introspection, self-hatred.

"They're all I have now, your highness. And I owe them a debt."

The two words- your highness, now came with the air of respect for the title- and for her. She was honest. She wasn't hateful. She did not fear him, reject him outright. She was curious, she was thoughtful. And- she didn't see him as a killer. It made him uncomfortable to know that she saw him as a person. He thought back to the helmet he found so much safety in. It was easier to be a faceless killer, a warrior amidst a sea of criminals and liars, thieves. But there was still someone under the helmet. He wished he was wearing it now.

And she saw right through him. That was more terrifying to Fenn than facing a Sith Lord or a Jedi Master, an invasion or otherwise.