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

[Mauve du Vain]

What's a God
To a Nonbeliever

Nar Shaddaa/Nal Hutta

Objective 1: Desecration​

OOC: Kazbog the Mystic has issued several public threats to the Black Sun Syndicate from his temple on Varl. His defiance of the Underlord will no longer tolerated. He and most of his guards are away on Nar Kreeta overseeing mining operations. Enter his temple on Nal Hutta and desecrate it, without bloodshed or burning. Mauve du Vain offers 50,000 underworld credits to the most creative act of desecration.

The Blessed Order of the Sacred Pulsar's temple on Nal Hutta sat some distance away from the nearest city, in a more mountainous region of the planet, with a winding path leading up from a large landing pad. The temple best resembled a series of huge domed telescopes all pointing in the same direction, because that was precisely what it was - all the better to glimpse the Godsheart Pulsar with, you see.

This time of day, the temple is filled with Hutt entourages paying homage to the pulsar by coming to squint at it through one of the great telescopes.

Jilruan religious fanatics guarded the temple jealously. Fortunately, most of them were elsewhere - accompanying the high oracle Kazbog the Mystic on a tour of the mines he owned on distant Nar Kreeta.

Kazbog's remarks against the Underlord had gone unanswered for too long. It was time for that to change.

***

Mauve stood on the landing pad leading up to the temple, eyeing the gang of thugs and miscreants and ne'er do wells.

"I don't care how you do it, just get in there and start desecrating."

"Dese-whatum?" asked a three-eyed Gran, confused.

"Break stuff. Not people."

An Aqualish grunted with disappointment. "What'll you be doing?"

"Oh I have a flight to catch, darling, and an economic crisis to begin. Anymore questions?"

Objective Two: Fashion​

OOC: Humiliating Kazbog's temple is not enough. He has apparently accumulated quite the investment in a series of ysalamiri breeding grounds on Myrkyr. A shame if ysalamiri became worth more dead than alive. Hunted to extinction in the name of fashion. Join the Syndicate for a fashion show where all the models sport rare and exotic animal attire: Ysalamiri boots! Ysalamiri belts! Ysalamiri bags! My my.

Mauve returned to Nar Shaddaa, a short flight from the planet's surface below, just in time to start mingling with the crowd in the venue. A massive runway split the room and soon the models would start to show off the latest haute couture. But for now, there were drinks to be had and appetizers to devour.

 

[Jerec Asyr]

OBJECTIVE TWO: FASHION

There was nothing quite so beautiful, in Jerec's estimation today, as an industrial protein cycler. The efficient salvage-ness of it, the transformation of bulk complications — ysalamiri, primarily sans skin — into spin-sealed pasteurized protein paste and calcium gravel, both with reasonable resale value. The actual value stemmed from the rapidly rising scarcity of ysalamiri and the political and cultural effects thereof. There were some things that should just plain be much rarer than they were these days.

All of this was elsewhere except the finest examples of skin (and certain elements of the hors d'oeuvres). For his own part, Jerec wore a dashing sash of miriskin. Ysalamiri leather had no impact on Jedi abilities but it just felt comforting.

He looked around for Hakar Scaleback who, he was fairly sure, had come up with the manufactured scarcity angle in the first place - not in the ysalamiri context, but the principle was sound. Having made pocket change and then some shorting ysalamir futures last night, Jerec owed the Trando a drink.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Objective Two: Fashion

​

Tag(s): Naamino Zuukamano | Open!

Smuggler's Moon had a seductive pull, one that drew him back time and time again lately. Fortunately, there weren't any disapproving whispers in his conscience either. And beyond the neon haze and corruption, there was something rarely found.. raw honesty. Power here didn't seem to be cloaked in ceremony or dressed in virtue. Things were just bought, sold, and at times, even paraded openly.. which suited him perfectly fine.

Lysander arrived at the venue cloaked in his usual attire. A dark tunic of fine weave hugged his lithe frame while leggings were tucked into polished boots. Just as he stepped into the hall, as though perfectly timed, a server drifted by with a tray of glasses. With a graceful motion, he plucked one and swirled the amber liquid within, savoring the burn like a venom sliding down his throat.

The pulse of the music hit him first, a heartbeat that grew louder with each and every step. Core accents, along with a few dialects he didn't even recognize, and the occasional bark of laughter, filled the air. It was also thick with spice smoke and the enticing perfume of credits being spent too freely.

A place that almost felt like home.

Almost..

The Sith's focus slowly drifted to the far end of the runway, where models donned cloaks and boots crafted from the skins of rare creatures. Somewhere in the mix, he caught the glint of the ysalamiri leather, causing a faint smile to grace his lips.

Not since the Battle of Brosi had two brothers seen each other. Now Lysander found himself delving deeper into the underworld, chasing new pursuits and opportunities. After a few months of separation, their paths were finally set to cross again. Nar Shaddaa was certainly not a welcoming place for most reunions, but in some strange way, it seemed fitting.

 

[Darth Anathemous]

Location: Objective 2
Wearing: Dress
Tag: Mauve du Vain

Kaila Starfall could be described as a complicated woman with simple tastes.

She sat reclined with a champaign glass in hand, chatting up one of the models who'd be on the runway later.

Actually she offered the girl a job, turned out the twi'lek had a lovely voice and it just so happened the young Darth had an empty stage just waiting. Why bother with a cutthroat music industry when offered a head start? It was enough to exchange holo-codes and a drink before the show, and Kaila waved her off with a smile.

That was her real reason for being here after all; connections.

She kept those golden eyes peeled for anyone who looked worth knowing, be they potential hires or business opportunities. The rogue Sith had plans, big plans, and it was high time she secured her powerbase outside the Blackwall.

And then opportunity walked in the door, wearing a dress.

They'd only met once before, but Kaila would recognize those pink hues anywhere. Mauve. She'd done her research since last time, turned out she and Mercy had a vigo in their laps and Kaila was none the wiser.

She smirked, and stood.

Black silks swayed gently with each step, and heels clicked. She'd forgone the usual spikes, but the claws and broad shoulders remained. She hoped the zeltron still recognized her after all this time.

"Mauve du Vain~" she purred, emerging from the crowd.

"I was hoping to find you here."

"Anathemous, we met on Kwenn Station, got proper smashed with Mercy." she chuckled.

"Can I buy you a drink, Vigo?"

​

 

[Jorryn Fordyce]

// Lady Jorryn Fordyce //
// Objective II // Get a new Belt, maybe some heels //
// Focus // // Mauve du Vain // Lysander von Ascania // Jerec Asyr // Darth Anathemous //
// Attire //

---

---

Nar Shadaa was a filthy and decrepit planet, filled to the brim with the scum of the galaxy. Its putrescence dove deep into the skin of those that walked its surface, dragging them down into the grime of the world. Yet, there was an allure to the planet that only the depraved could enjoy. Jorryn Fordyce had only recently been reborn into the galaxy, her new abilities still untested and raw. Perhaps it was for that reason she made her way to the smuggler's moon, where a missing individual or ten would hardly be of note.

The Echani had spent only a short time here, her experiments pushing forth knowledge of flesh and its delicateness. Her room was as luxurious as one could get on the planet, save for the room where her practice would take place, and hidden as well as she thought it might be. The anonymity clearly wasn't enough, and those more experienced in the underground had made their knowledge known.

A black invitation with the name of the Silver-haired Sith lay on the entrance room of her apartment, an invitation to a show. It had been an amusing thought, to go out an experience the night life of such a place. So the Echani decided to accept, strutting into the private event with confidence.

There was little she could do to hide her Sith features, and so the woman would wear them proudly. Gold trinkets fell delicately away from her dark horns, the skin her dress didn't cover exposed to display the runic tattoos that now decorate it. She wore a black dress with gold accessories decorating it and a pair of black heels.

For now, Lithe fingers embraced a glass of red wine as a male zabrak passed by with a tray, bringing it up to her dark lips as she observed the floor. While the fashion was the main point of the event, there would be no harm in making a few new friends.

 

[Arris Windrun]

OBJECTIVE TWO

Boots.

That's what was in the package Arris received from Mauve. That and a note: 'Wear this. Come here. Do that.' was the gist of it.

She arrived with a smoke wedged between two metal fingers, and the end opposite hot betwixt glossy lips.

The sound of the lizard boots on her feet announced her presence as she sauntered on over. The zeltron already had company, of course, but that was never a surprise.

Cyber eyes scrutinized the well-dressed guest. Little did Arris know, but the two had crossed paths before, but never so informally and never without the Sith Lord behind that mask. As far as the Talusian knew, it was a stranger that stood before them.

"And who is this?" She asked. "Another friend of yours, Boss?"

She looked at Mauve with a stone-cold poker face. "I'm starting to think you collect blondes... should I be worried?"

Her expression melted into a sly grin.

Jerec Asyr Mauve du Vain Darth Anathemous Lysander von Ascania Jorryn Fordyce

 

[Naamino Zuukamano]

Objective Two
Lysander von Ascania | Open

Gone were the days of mere coursework at the academy and incremental ladder climbing within military hierarchy. No, these days Naamino Zuukamano was nearing the rank of Sith Shadow at Kor'ethyr and formally held the rank of true apprentice to Elmindra Xitaar . Which meant that he was expected to grow his skill set accordingly and that his work took him farther afield than ever before.

The work was grueling, free time was at an all time all time low, and the demands upon him weighed heavier than ever. Truthfully? Naami loved it. His near boundless constitution and stamina, not to mention the way his presence in the dark side burgeoned daily, all made him a promising contender for "golden boy" of the next generation of Sith.

This event was a perfect test for that growing reputation, given that he needed to lay low, fit in, and resist the urge to make use of his power unless absolutely necessary. The big, stoic zabrak was there to gather information. To get in on the ground floor of everyday operations and read the room, because he was expected to provide a dossier to his Master. Unbeknownst to him, the faleen Lord already had her own connections there and this was a twofold test of her relatively new apprentice.

Dressed to kill, in more than one sense of the word, Naami was mingling in the gathering crowd while keeping mostly to himself. His tattoos matched the red-brown accents of his garb and the zabrak might have even passed for a fashion designer himself based on how finely cut the outfit was. The rather stiff drink in his hand was more set dressing than something to properly be enjoyed and he'd hardly sipped from it.

That stern face shifted into one of quiet smugness at seeing such a familiar face. Not wanting to give too much away, the zabrak took his time meandering over to where Lysander von Ascania stood, the blonde looking perfectly at ease in a place Naami could only pretend to feel comfort.

"Look what the Tuk'ata dragged in," the young man offered dryly in a voice like smooth tumbled stone.

"It's a small galaxy, huh?"

He hazarded no further question or comment, in case Lys wanted to avoid assumptions that they knew eachother well or he was going under an assumed name.

 

[Sibylla Abrantes]

​

Objective Two
Nar Shaddaa | Fashion Show
A Little Party Never Killed Nobody
Interacting with eventually: Mauve du Vain | Open

Nar Shaddaa. Of all the worlds in the galaxy, it was the last place Sibylla imagined she would willingly set foot.

The invitation had arrived at her office by means that left little doubt: Mauve du Vain had her ways of ensuring messages slipped through the layers of Theed Palace security. Perhaps it hadn't been flagged precisely because it appeared so disarmingly old-fashioned -- a handwritten letter on perfumed stationery, with just the faintest trace of pheromones clinging to the paper.

Sibylla was cordially invited to a fashion show on Nar Shaddaa, hosted by Mauve herself. Alongside the flourish of calligraphy was a personal note in the Zeltron's hand, promising her safety for the evening and capped with a wicked little postscript: P.S. -- Sorry for shooting you.

"It's a trap," Corde had said flatly. As one of Sibylla's three handmaidens, Corde had been at her side since her days as Mandalorian ambassador and had followed her to the Palace along with Ynes, while the most recent addition, Bastila Sal-Soren, divided her service between the Jedi Order and Sibylla's protection when needed.

Prudence might have dictated calling on Bastila for this occasion, but Sibylla had no desire to juggle more than one Jedi in her retinue. If a fight broke out, Corde could handle herself well enough. In truth, Sibylla knew the danger. Mauve du Vain was as likely to entrap her as to amuse her, but with the High Republic still reeling after the Senate attack and Chancellor Kalantha's abduction, Sibylla could not afford to dismiss the invitation. If Mauve had information, this might be the only chance to seize it.

"I know," Sibylla answered, adjusting the fall of her golden Karlini silk gown. It clung elegantly to her frame, her dark hair swept into a sleek updo and held fast with black-and-white pearl pins. A long necklace of gold chains and pearls glimmered at her throat, and at her wrist, a broad cuff concealed the compact shield generator woven into her ensemble. There were other precautions layered beneath the finery, but to the casual eye she presented only good faith -- a guest, not an aggressor.

"I won't be alone, and I've taken precautions," she added, lifting her kohl-lined hazel eyes to meet Corde's. "You sent the update to Tona?"

Even Sibylla wasn't that reckless to vanish without leaving word.

"Yes. She also thinks it's a trap."

That drew a soft low and amused laugh from Sibylla. She shook her head, her lips curving faintly.

"Well," she said dryly, "it seems my entire circle is united in their opinion of my impending doom. How fortunate for me then, that I have been practicing my selfdefense."

The fashion show on Nar Shaddaa was less a gathering and more a spectacle; a fever dream of glitter and sound where every light seemed to compete with the next. Chandeliers the size of skiffs spilled crystal fire across the vaulted ceiling, while floating holoscreens magnified the runway in lurid detail. Music thundered with a catchy beat that was matched only by the laughter and chatter of the multitude of guests in the cavernous hall.

Sibylla's gown caught the light with every step, the gold silk flashing like a living flame against the kaleidoscope of color. At her side, Aiden Porte wore a sharp suit that flattered his form and made him appear more of an escort than a Jedi Knight.

"I may need to step away to talk with Mauve, Aiden," Sibylla said, tilting her head slightly so her words were caught only by him. And while her tone seemed calm, there was a flicker of wryness that tugged at her mouth.

"But you should have my location if I am delayed too long."

The tiny tracker was hidden among her accessories, its presence as deliberate as the pheromone blocker and anti-mental manipulation implant she had. All layers of defense against what could be the persuasive charms of host or guest alike. At least in theory. Who could say what the night might truly demand?

"But first things first..." she mused aloud, surveying the glittering sea of bodies, her lips curving into a faint smile. Her hand rose to give a subtle beckon, the bracelets giving a slight chime as they catch the light.

"How about a drink?"

 

[Aiden Porte]

Objective: 2
Fashion Show
Sibylla Abrantes
​

Nar Shaddaa had a way of pressing on the senses. The light was never truly light, the air never clean, and the sound always too loud, always too near. It was a city that tried to dazzle, but beneath the glitter he could feel the pulse of something darker. A current of greed and hunger ran through the crowd like a hidden tide. Beneath his sleeve, the concealed lightsaber brushed against his wrist, a reminder of who he was even here among the perfumed elite.

Even so, Aiden walked with an ease that belied his unease. To any casual observer, he looked the part the calm, well-dressed escort beside the voice and noblewoman of Naboo, head tilted slightly as she spoke, gaze steady but never too sharp. His presence at Sibylla's side was deliberate theater: composed, deferential, the way a protector in disguise ought to be. Yet behind the courteous smile, his thoughts were far from the golden lights of the runway.

Inara.

The name alone carried weight in his chest the weight of a friendship forged through long years of service and trust. She had been more than just a Chancellor to him. She was the rare soul who could steady a room by her presence, who believed that compassion was not weakness but strength. And now she was gone, taken in the chaos of the Senate attack, leaving behind a silence that no word could fill.

He felt it still the moment the Force had rippled through the galaxy, sharp and cold as a scream that no one else could hear. That pain hadn't been physical, but it had reached him all the same. Even now, in the din of laughter and the shimmer of silk, that echo lingered at the edge of his senses. Somewhere out there, Inara was alive. He could feel her light, distant but unbroken.

But for how long?

Aiden shifted slightly, keeping Sibylla within his peripheral vision as they approached one of the marble terraces overlooking the lower levels of the venue. The music swelled with percussion, strings, a rising hum as models swept down the illuminated walkway like living art.

Sibylla's poise was impeccable, her every movement calculated, graceful. By contrast, was the flame that drew every gaze. Her gown gold silk that caught the spectrum of the room's lights seemed to breathe with her every motion. When she turned, the fabric rippled like molten metal, echoing the music's pulse.

"Understood," he murmured, his voice low enough to vanish beneath the bass thrum. "If you're gone too long, I'll come find you. Mauve or not."

Sibylla's bracelets chimed softly when she turned, the sound delicate as laughter. Aiden gave a quiet breath through his nose the faintest of chuckles as his eyes met hers. Aiden inclined his head, the gesture smooth, practiced. "A drink sounds perfect, Something local. Something that won't glow." The corner of his mouth tilted upward a rare flash of dry humor.

He offered his arm to her, as they would move towards the bar.

"What are you feeling?"

 

[Persephone Dashiell]

FASHION SHOW

Nar Shadda. It wasn't a planet she willingly visited.

Last trip here had been a visit to Miss Mauve du Vain's art gallery and a small plea to learn from the woman for a day. Now she was here after an invitation for a fashion show. Apparently her keen eye regarding the type of furs the Zeltron woman wore had made a small impression of some type. At least, this was the story Persephone had told herself, there was no real way to confirm.

Fashion was her paramount hobby, the thing she hinged much of her time on. As such she went a little bolder, a little older with her look for the evening. Something that would impress but also not look like the gowns she often wore at galas and social events. She felt those were a bit different than such a thing as a fashion show, especially when there was a chance to impress one of her idols. It wasn't as if fashion designers showed up at galas filled with the children of the merchant class.

"You look great by the way, very fashionable."

Persephone was speaking to her good friend and escort for the evening, Iko Vel .They hadn't quite worked out romantically - which was a shame - but remained in touch and he was the perfect option to be seen with. Clean, fashionable, well-mannered. Her parents already knew him well so there was no additional screenings needed.

"Thanks for joining me. Probably not your scene but the best way to look at these things is all the free items. Swag bag. Food. Alcohol. Speaking of which..."

She trailed off and neatly grabbed two glasses of red wine from a passing waiter. It was crowded crowded in the hall. Certainly the event of the season. Not a moment too soon, her social calendar had been looking dreary.

"At some point I need to find Miss Mauve du Vain but she is most likely swamped so there is no rush. Just letting you know now to remind me."

 

[Iko Vel]

IKO VEL
"You can take the Boy outta the City, but you can't take the City outta the Boy"​

Tags: Persephone Dashiell

---

"I would never have expected to find myself on Nar Shaddaa of all places. At least not with a shining sword in one hand and a promise to save the poor in the other...By the Force, I've changed quite a bit."

It was strange to think back on for Iko. The days of him wanting to be a hero and to save the innocent were long past him now. Iko raised an eyebrow a little bit as he heard Persie compliment him on his suit. It hadn't been anything he had planned. Maybe he had finally learned something from her, even if they hadn't been in contact for a while.

"Well. One of us has to look good at the end of the day. If it can't be you, it might as well be me."

A small cheeky grin spread across Iko's face at that. Sure, he might still have manners and be very respectful, but when it came to his friends? He liked to let those manners fade a bit...though that didn't stop him from lowering his voice, his face flushing for a moment.

"Though...you do look great. Really great."

Even so, Persephone was always dear to Iko, so when the offer to go with her to some kind of fashion show was offered...Well, in the past, the "heroic" Iko would have turned it down for being too gross or boring. But the current Iko? He was willing to go to support his friend. It saved her needing a different guard.

"You don't need to thank me Perse. Like you said. Free food. Free booze."

Booze. Because as much as you can teach a boy manners, more often than not, their vocabulary had been formed by the people they had surrounded themselves, and considering he had lived on Coruscant before joining the Jedi, and then joining the Dashiells...Was it any surprise that he was still a bit of a city boy?

"And if there's more excuses to see you looking like this? Sign me up."

With that however, he took the glass from Persie carefully, giving her a small nod of thanks, before holding his arm out for her to take. Though noticable, he didn't partake in any of it. For all of the smile and grins he had on his face, Iko's eyes were still scanning around to make sure everything was good. Since fashion wasn't exactly his thing, that meant he could keep an eye on things whilst others were distracted.

"Also. You do know, you've picked one of the most forgetful people, to remind you of something later, right?"

A perked eyebrow alongside another smirk. He couldn't help himself. He was someone who always had a comment to make.

---

​

 

[Skeevi Merrill]

Objective 1: Desecration​

OOC: Kazbog the Mystic has issued several public threats to the Black Sun Syndicate from his temple on Varl. His defiance of the Underlord will no longer tolerated. He and most of his guards are away on Nar Kreeta overseeing mining operations. Enter his temple on Nal Hutta and desecrate it, without bloodshed or burning. Mauve du Vain offers 50,000 underworld credits to the most creative act of desecration.

Shielded by utility, Skeevi had pre-arrived for the simple reason that Black Sun thugs tended to break neat cybernetics with depressing regularity. Pre-arrived by a day, in fact, to see what could be scrounged. Skeevi had not anticipated that the sound of thuggery arriving would find them scrambling to don pants, boots, and a virulent yellow coat. The process involved a lot of clacking and clanking as Skeevi's cybernetics rasped against the Hutt palace basement wall alcove — as well as the alcove's co-occupant, a being of similar interests and aptitudes.

"S'not you, it's me," Skeevi said, buckling on a belt of ripperdoc tools. "Only got brain space for a little po luza." They reached through arachnoid metal limbs and patted the B'omarr monk's brain jar fondly.

Bubbles gurgled plaintively in the jar.

"Feth no I'm not leaving the neural stim." Skeevi tapped the tool in question against their own temple and shivered. "Whoo, tingles. But you ever make it upta Nar Shaddaa, I'll hook you up with a good one. Uh, Black Sun's crashing the place. Orders are to break stuff not people, but..."

It didn't need saying that cyborgs — especially those whose meat parts were minimal, like a B'omarr ascendant — tended to get lumped into the category of 'stuff.' The monk would make himself scarce out of basic prudence. Skeevi discovered their shirt was on backward, sorted that, and headed upstairs to show their face for some perfunctory looting.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Objective Two: Fashion
Tag(s): Naamino Zuukamano | Open

The glass was cool beneath Lysander's grip, a stem balanced between fingers that turned with a soft, nostalgic touch. He lifted it once more, allowing the contents to roll across the tongue, down his throat, into his chest. Eyes closed for a breath; it was proof of existence in a world constant with death and decay. Such a spirit seemed ill-suited to the elegance of its vessel.. venom trapped in crystal.

But then.. Nar Shaddaa had a way of bending contradictions until they only felt natural.

As one might survey a battlefield, he catalogued the hall before him, every layer unfolding like a map. Never once displaying a hint of hurry, he still carried the patience of an aristocratic figure, despite current surroundings being far from the grace he had once known.

Around him, the menagerie of models, syndicate members, and even predators lurking in the shadows, left Lysander unfazed.

Comfort in the den of debauchery.

His regard fell briefly on Jorryn Fordyce . Marked by the same shadows, unmasked, unafraid. Afterward Arris Windrun , another blonde, this one with smoke curling from a grin.

Then, inevitably, focus fell upon Darth Anathemous , a presence enough to elicit an unconscious curl of his lips. Another sister in the dark, but this one was a reflection of himself forged in the inferno. Grateful he was, to have one more in his corner, that he may look up to and draw strength from.

Since the night at Canto Bight, things had been.. better. The downward spiral that began well before the Galactic Kaggath had slowed.

He felt good. For the first time in too long, he felt good.

And seeing her only deepened that.

The music swelled, so Lysander found himself turning, and there he was. The Zabrak, taller, broader, dwarfing him. But the old rhythm would remain, one still painting Naamino as the little brother.

Shards of polished emerald traveled up, then down, sizing him up. Already, he was savoring the reunion much as the drink. So, the curve of his mouth only deepened into something warmer.

“Look at this little schutta,” he returned, voice edged with amusement.

Taking a step closer, his free hand patted the other Sith’s arm. Half-embrace. Half-challenge. The type of greeting only kin got away with.

“Guess Lesh finally decided to trust you with a night off. I’m glad for it.”

The pat turned into a clasp, fingers tightening, sealing the words, and then releasing.

“Strange how Nar Shaddaa brings us together, but fitting, I suppose. How have you been holding the line?”

His head titled, curious about every scar and story written into the Zabrak’s frame.

“Tell me what feeds the fire these days.”

 

[Morné Karn]

Objective Two: Fashion

Morné Karn arrived at the venue just as the latest line of crystalline gowns glimmered under the stage lights. He saw a great deal as he too his seat: the whispered negotiations, the nervous laughter, the subtle threats hidden behind polite smiles.

He allowed himself to admire the spectacle for a moment, feigning casual interest in a dress that caught the light like a holocron. Then he swept his gaze across the audience, identifying potential contacts and rivals alike.

Morné had no interest in fashion. There was an expensive label on the inside of his jacket, but he looked as if his large frame had been stuffed into the formal suit.

The show provided a mask of glamour and civility, but Karn wanted to move beneath that and make contacts and get deals done. It was more civilised, he supposed, than an art auction for money laundering. The movement of credits was not being hidden for the public eye, just intentions and promises.

 

[Naamino Zuukamano]

Objective Two
Lysander von Ascania | Open

Naami scoffed, a half grin forming on his face as Lys reciprocated the easy familial banter they'd adopted in their time spent at academy together. He stood sturdy under the blonde sizing him up, and offered a clap on the back in turn. It seemed the human felt no threat or concern being openly associated with him, so Naami took his lead.

"If Lesh had it her way, I'd probably have more free time than work," he corrected with a grin, icy gaze turning to take in some of the same sights Lys just had.

"Ah, you know how it goes— War and strategy keep me plenty busy these days," his words remained vague in a place they could be so easily overheard.

"What of you, eh? Heard through the whipweed vine that you're a businessman now. Or are reports of your fame and fortune exaggerated?"

Naami's eyes returned to his friend's face as he took a careful sip of his drink, pointedly aware that he needed to stay alert and wanting to be sure he was ready to face any conversation that the ever magnetic Lysander might draw to them.

 

[Mauve du Vain]

​

Objective Two: Fashion

Days gone by, Mauve would have been the one unknown at the function, trying to scrounge up some contacts.

How times changed.

"Can I buy you a drink, Vigo?"

"Anathemous was it? Sure, I'll take a drink." Mauve looked the woman up and, well, up. Tall, dark, and looking every bit the Sith who really was not trying that hard to not be suspected as a Sith. Pauldrons that looked like big, black icicles tended to do that. Dangerous, oh yes, but so... traditionally Sith. Not exactly Mauve's favorite, if she was being entirely honest.

"You're looking... spiky," Mauve's lips curved in a smirk, eyes shifting to Arris as the cyborg appeared at their side. Mauve placed a delicate hand on the cyborg's arm.

"And who is this?" She asked. "Another friend of yours, Boss?"

She looked at Mauve with a stone-cold poker face. "I'm starting to think you collect blondes... should I be worried?"

"Of course not," she said to Arris slyly, hand tightening just slightly on her arm as she leaned in conspiratorially, "I thought you'd know by now."

Over the cyborg's shoulder, her violet eyes swept the room pausing on two individuals.

Gold trinkets fell delicately away from her dark horns, the skin her dress didn't cover exposed to display the runic tattoos that now decorate it. She work a black dress with gold accessories decorating it and a pair of black heels.

Sibylla's gown caught the light with every step, the gold silk flashing like a living flame against the kaleidoscope of color.

"It's not just blondes..."

 

[Sibylla Abrantes]

​

Objective Two
Nar Shaddaa | Fashion Show
A Little Party Never Killed Nobody
Interacting with: Aiden Porte | Open
Eventually: Mauve du Vain

Sibylla caught the flicker of humor in Aiden's voice, her brow lifting at his remark about drinks.

"What's wrong with drinks that glow?" she teased, the corners of her mouth curving.

"You make it sound as though there's a tragic tale involving poor decisions and questionable cocktail concoctions." The edge of a laugh curved her lips as they wove through the glittering press of guests toward one of the many bars ensuring no hand was left without a glass for long.

Even while she smiled, her hazel kohl-lined eyes kept sweeping the room. She scanned the sea of sequins and ysalamiri leather with quiet focus, looking for one face in particular, the Zeltron who had once shot her point-blank with a Tenloss slugthrower.

She felt her collarbone give a faint, phantom ache at the thought, a private reminder of how close she had come to not surviving that encounter.

Which made this evening interesting, to say the least. It was not every night one attended a party hosted by someone who had once tried to kill them.

"Whiskey will be my drink of choice for the night," she admitted. The taste had grown on her since Wielu, though she suspected her father would be far from delighted to learn that particular detail.

"Unless, of course, one of those glowy concoctions manages to catch my fancy," she added with a hint of playful mockery. Her hazel eyes sparkled as she glanced over her shoulder toward Aiden, the curve of her lips lifting into a playful grin.

 

[Skeevi Merrill]

OBJECTIVE ONE: DESECRATION

The noise, the noise - Skeevi would've worn earphones if not for the close connection between immediate physical safety and hearing (no matter how reduced, and no matter what side Skeevi was on). Skeevi braved the sound and emerged from the stairwell into the Hutt's throne room, where Black Sun thugs were breaking things to the piss-soaked limits of their imaginative capacity.

Keeping to the edge of the room, Skeevi probed at their gums with a fingernail and spat a small B'omarr rivet.

Nobody on Black Sun's side needed medical attention at this point, so the spice huffers and invasive plug-and-play cybernetics stayed in Skeevi's bandolier. In the spirit of team spirit, Skeevi took a table leg to a light fixture and carried the former around thereafter to send all the right signals. There was a lonesome clatter of B'omarr spiderlegs in a side passage, and Skeevi, unexpectedly affected, sighed at what could never be, or at least not today while working. If a brain-in-a-jar turned up at their Nar Shaddaa ripperdoc shop, though, who could say?

 

[Torn Eskol]

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SIA SPECDIV
AGENT ESKOL
OBJECTIVE TWO
"SPIDER"

FASHIONABLY THERE

​

Torn Eskol, was a lot of things. Paranoid to a fault, violent, capable- and quiet. He was among one of the deadlier tools in the SIA's arsenal, a precision instrument for precision tasks. And tonight-

He had a specific task. He moved like everyone else, smiled, and wore a nice suit. He was another rich man in a sea of wealth that drowned him. He was invisible, despite being prominently there. He wasn't too tall, wasn't too loud, had a drink, and was polite to those around him. But very forgettable. Easily dismissed.

He was there to do something. Something wicked, this way comes. He looked around, not seeing the target- yet. She'd present herself soon enough. All he had to do, was lie in wait. That's why he chose his own callsign this time- Spider. Spider looked around, taking a deep breath. He was invisible in the force. Years of training concealed his mind, and in a sea of thievery, maliciousness and wealth, the present Jedi and Sith would have a very hard time to deduce it was him unless they were looking actively- and with great effort. Sith Lords and Jedi Masters had failed before. He didn't have any fear of that.

He waited, poised and elegant. All he had to do-

Was wait.

​

 

[Eira Dyn]

Objective: 1 - Raid/Desecrate the temple
Equipment: Lethal Pursuers, vibro-sword, blaster pistol, mask, spray paint and more
Outfit: Assassin Attire
Tag: CT-312

No killing. No burning. But desecrate the temple.

That seemed to be asking an impossibility. She wasn't sure why CT-312 was asking her to join a mission that didn't involve violence and explosions. The previous experiences with CT-312 demonstrated to Eira that the woman was chaotic and destructive during missions. The soldier shot a gun at Darth Carnifex, if that wasn't crazy, Eira was not sure what was!

So, seeing that this a pretty tame or mediocre in the chaotic nature, Eira wasn't sure why either of them were agreeing to this mission. It didn't seem like it was going to be a lot of fun but Eira was developing a soft spot for CT-312, seeing the soldier as a friend so when asked, it was hard to say no. Figuring out how to desecrate the temple without burning or killing people. There were some ideas that came to mind initially but she was curious to hear what other ideas CT-312 had.

"Well, what are you thinking on desecrating this temple without blowing it up or killing everyone inside, soldier?" Eira asked CT-312 as she looked over to the other woman, "I was thinking tagging and looting the place."