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

[Sibylla Abrantes]

​

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.
​

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.

 

[Eaton Waters]

He could be here to steal, but really, was it too easy? Maybe. They were all drinking and he had a few extra tricks nowadays. But if he could scope out the market? That was one thing he knew he could do here, and not cause a problem with himself in the Black Sun. Some day maybe he’d attempt to do a good lift in an environment like this.

But for now? Drink and watch.

Moving a hand, he had a credit and with a quick little whisper, to most outside observers, they’d see it be a much higher value as he ran it through his fingers.

“Me? Yeah, a bit of an interesting location for this type of meeting, wouldn’t you agree?”

Aiden Porte

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Objective Two: Fashion
Tag(s): Naamino Zuukamano

​

The bassline of the event rattled through the soles of Lysander’s boots, a pulse that could only belong to Smuggler’s Moon. Even within the establishment, there was a familiar neon gaze spilled across glass, but his attention for the time being remained on the Zabrak. His hand, which had ghosted toward the hilt at his hip, fell back to his side. Whatever shadow had brushed both the air, and his consciousness earlier, was already gone.

He exhaled through the nose, and a faint curve of his mouth betrayed amusement at the Zabrak’s admission, dry as it was..

Sitshadow lessons, a debt owed, Elmindra, all dropping like credits on a Sabacc table

“Politeness is a weapon like any other,” he murmured, with indulegeance. “The trick is knowing when to conceal it, and when to let it cut."

A quip only drew a deeper smile. “Statues are only convincing if they look as though they might move.. but you’ve always had that balance.”

The polish of indoctrination was becoming clearer. Naamino wore it well.. too well.

Part of him admired it.

Part of it saddened him too, though he let no trace of it touch his youthful visage.

Everything he’d built thus far, everything he owned, was his, not the Order's.

“Nightclubs are temples of a different kind. Men like Kyraj think debts are negotiable. They aren’t.”

Before this night was over, Lysander imagined he would circle back on it; naturally, as one does with old comrades; diverging paths would never erase that bond of blood and red sand.

Through the press of bodies, the blonde listened without interruption. Patience as could be, he allowed only the occasional incline of his head and the narrowing of eyes when a detail caught his attention. That glance was colder now than before. Either way, silence amid the old Badawans would never mean disinterest.

“I’ve heard a few things about your girl,” he admitted. “Not in great detail, but enough to understand she's as busy as you say.”

Before long, a hand brushed the bar’s edge as they arrived. With his brother next to, claiming space without ostentation was too easy.

“I do own a modest home now, just outside of Shoegen,” the phrase poured out like a fine vintage. “But most of my days are spent in the lab. New projects. New designs. The house feels more like a ledger entry than anything else.”

Fingers tapped once against the counter. The following words were quieter. “I miss Haro, dearly.”

Then, with a nod. “The Captain.”

That title carried its own weight.

The bartender drifted closer and Lysander’s hand stilled against the counter. His focus lifted just enough to acknowledge the figure behind the bar before sliding back to Naamino.

“Corellian whiskey.” A verdict, not a request. “Neat.”

An inclination of his head closed that exchange. And when the glass was set down before him, he wouldn’t reach for it right away.

Finally, he continued. “I may see Varin soon. We’re supposed to train together near the Holy Worlds, time permitting.”

The cadence of another voice threaded through the event’s chaos, a voice already etched into his mind from the past. One holocall, a brief glimpse after the Galactic Kaggath, and then, those rare, older on Naboo. But what really confirmed it were the hazel eyes; they were the same eyes that had once stared back at him across a flickering holofeed. Sibylla.

Lysander's expression didn't soften; it composed itself. So, his gaze lingered, burdened with unsaid words, longer than it should have, or perhaps not nearly long enough.

As if sealing the moment, he grasped the vessel, brought it to his lips, then turned back to Naamino.

“It’s made me a better listener, if nothing else. It’s also kept me busy with obligations. I’ve some things in motion here with Darth Anathemous. I believe you’ll find them.. worth your attention.”

​

 

[CT-312]

//: Eira Dyn | OPEN //:
//: Blessed Order of the Sacred Pulsar temple, Nal Hutta //:
//: Attire //:
//: Objective 1: Desecration //:

Boots clicking softly against the polished marble as CT-312 stepped through the temple's main archway. Inside, the commotion was already underway. “Or keep.” CT-312 muttered. Gangs of hired thugs and opportunists tore through relics and offerings. Shouting over one another as they ransacked the place. “If there’s anything left.” Even if this kind of mission grated on her, maybe there was something worth salvaging.

CT-312 listened as Eira continued off her list of creative ideas. The mention of telescopes had the Scout look towards the directions of the objects. A brow raised beneath the helmet when she caught sight of a massive aquatic creature ( Isur ) near one of the telescopes. Blinking twice. CT-312 was making sure she was seeing correctly. “Fish out of water?” Confirming with Eira.

Aside from the “renovations” she’d already planned, another idea clicked into place. Her mind drifted briefly to a prior operation. A spice transport run. Ended with several crates of high-grade products. “Going to replace all their candles and incense with spice-laced variants.” CT-312’s fingers tapped the edges of her vambrace. “Imagine the trip they'll be in for.” A pause. “Who knows, maybe the Black Sun picks up a new client.”

A sharp chime was heard, suddenly Eira held up the Zinder app with a specifically new profile towards her. Is this your doing? CT-312’s visor faintly reflected the app as she glanced at the screen.

It was.

The assassin was clearly amused. CT-312 attempted what others called ‘wordplay’. Something that civilians do sometimes. Still not entirely sure why people enjoyed it. Nevertheless, it looked like she did it right. Eira seemed entertained. CT-312 gave her a thumbs-up in response.

Returning to her HUD, typing out a quick set of instructions. BARCA’s digital voice hummed in her helmet, as text scrolled on the HUD.

[ BARCA ]
[ Acknowledged. Renovation crew en route. ]

Lifting her right hand, palm up as she curled her fingers twice. Gesturing for a spray paint can. The walls weren’t going to make themselves look pretty—

A notification pinged across her HUD. The fake Zinder profile she made was swiped on. Just as CT-312 was about to dismiss it, a name flashed in the corner of her visor: Jorryn Fordyce . The image and name stirred a hint of recognition. “Jorryn.” she murmured to herself. A quick command sent to BARCA, it brought up the corresponding dossier. One of the Princess’s known associates. Interesting coincidence. An opportunity to cross-reference the company the Princess kept around her.

Another ping followed, accompanied by a message:

< :| Do I get those tongue twisters now, or are they better in person? |: >

CT-312 blinked once. What kind of question is that? Obviously, reading text doesn’t have the same effect as spoken words with that. She began typing on her vambrace:

< …Of course tongue twisters are better in person. >

Stopping just as she was about to hit ‘send’. CT-312 backspaced the period and added a smile emoji. She’d seen others do, when trying to appear casual. Friendlier.

< Of course tongue twisters are better in person >

Send.

The message icon blinked once before disappearing. CT-312 lowered her arm and turned her focus back toward the temple’s interior. Exhaling quietly through the modulator, recalibrating her HUD’s display. Aside from the spice-laced candles, “Add a couple packs of scurriers for atmosphere. Call it modern art.”

 

[Sibylla Abrantes]

​

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

Sibylla listened.

The sound of the music, the murmur of conversation, even the electric hum of the hololights seemed to dim in her awareness as she watched Fenn speak. It wasn't his words at first that held her, but his silences, in the long deliberate pauses. The way those dark shadowed eyes drifted, not out of distraction, but out of a quiet war with his own thoughts.

That kind of pause wasn't arrogance, nor evasion. It was the pause of a man trying to choose honesty over safety.

Fingers curled around the glass as she brought it back to her lips, taking a sip of the Alderaanian Twist. It still carried its sweetness, but even that seemed distant as she gave him her full attention. When he finally turned his head to her and spoke, the expression on his face told her all she needed to know before he said a word.

It was not anger. It was weariness.

My people, the Mandalorians, have fallen apart, shattered, thrown to the winds of the galaxy every which way...

Fenn's words carried the kind of grief that didn't shout. It was quieter than that. He spoke of loss, of being broken down piece by piece until the world left nothing behind but a man searching for purpose. The Black Sun, Mauve du Vain, all of it had become something of a home for him. Not by virtue, but by necessity. And yet, in the way he said Mauve's, in the way he pointed to her across the room, Sibylla could feel that it wasn't fear or obligation that bound him to her.

It was faith. Earned the hard way.

The young Royal felt something stir deep within her chest at that realization. Not pity, never that, but understanding. She knew what it was to lose people, to watch pieces of what one believed in crumble away until only duty remained to hold the fragments together. How grief could grind against the bones until there was nothing left but a promise to keep going.

And if Mauve du Vain had given him sanctuary in that, given him purpose where loss had hollowed him out, then Sibylla could understand the loyalty he carried like a weight.

Sibylla's expression softened, a faint smile curving her lips, one born not of politics but of understanding. She gave a slow nod, even as the awareness that the conversation could turn dangerous at any moment kept her focus on Fenn. It reminded her of something she had once spoken about with Acier Moonbound , how she was never entirely certain whether her empathy was a practiced skill or something she truly felt. Over time, the two had blurred together so closely that she had begun to doubt where the performance ended and the feeling began.

Yet it was Ace's assurance that flowed into her mind again, Maybe it doesn't have to be one or the other. Maybe it's both. You can care and still calculate. You can mean well and still stumble through it. Doesn't make it fake... just makes it you.

She'd never been so grateful for that reassurance Ace had given her as it did now.

"I see," she replied with genuine thoughtfulness. "Then it seems she has given you something very rare in this galaxy."

The warmth in her tone lingered as her hazel eyes drifted to her glass, her focus thoughtful. She found herself reflecting on her years with the Royal Houses, the Assembly, and the Mandalorian Empire as their Ambassador, on what those experiences had taught her -- how they had shaped and humanized her understanding of what people truly needed.

"We often speak of loyalty as though it is something easily bought or commanded. But what you describe, Fenn, that is something deeper. It sounds more like belonging than obligation."

She hesitated for a moment as her voice softened further in a thoughtful tone.

"I have seen the kind of loyalty that is built from loss. It is the kind that endures when glory fades, the kind that binds people not through oaths, but through the ache of understanding. You speak of Miss Mauve as one who did not merely save you, but gave you reason again."

Sibylla took another sip of her drink, letting the music swell around them once more before meeting his gaze again.

"Perhaps that is what will make her a force to be reckoned with here. Not her power. But her ability to make others believe in something again."

Sibylla could respect what that meant -- just as she also knew just how dangerous that could be depending on what Mauve du Vain wanted to do with that. Either way, it was evident by her hazel eyes that she carried a quiet empathy, the sort that did not condescend, but saw the importance of what Fenn found here.

She could respect that.

And for a brief moment, amid the lights, the laughter, and the thundering pulse of the fashion show, Sibylla Abrantes simply looked at Fenn Stag and saw not the enforcer before her, but the man beneath the armor.

The human underneath. Every bit as flawed as well as every bit desiring a measure of belonging and purpose.

Even she battled with that still.

 

[Fenn Stag]

She burned like a star, twice as bright in the darkest of night, near and far
​

There was a comfortable silence, perhaps for just a moment. For that brief moment, that brief second, Fenn was vulnerable. He was real. He was not a killer, a machine. A clone, a tool, a template. His eyes, bluer than they let on, finally flickered over to her. It was not the same look. It was a wounded man, looking at the first person to make him feel vulnerable in quite some time. A person who's empathy, words alone, drew his mind towards the reality of who he was. He had been a rampaging man for so long-

A shark, was a more apt description. He never bothered to weigh any of what he did, what happened to him. He was simply in it for the next fight. The brutality of her words was not the intent of the speaker, but they resonated more than the harshest of blows. They were the words of a person who saw him. Of a person who was not afraid, did not draw away, did not run-

She was looking at him as Fenn, as the man beneath it all. Her empathy was something to behold, to be felt. Perhaps it was the force- or perhaps not. Fenn was unsure.

That made her terrifying. Part of Fenn's response was to lash out, strike, or run.

Run, hide, fight. It kept his ancestors, the Taung, alive many thousands of years ago in the ashes of Coruscant's volcanic skies. He wondered sometimes if he was better than them, in any way. They perhaps had some sliver of honor- their customs giving way to the Mandalorians today. What did he have? He was a murderer for hire, for the Black Sun. Sure enough, she was correct, and so was he-

But how long would this last? What next?

When his eyes flickered back over to her, they were soft. They were full of pain, hate, anger, sadness, regret, loss. And they said a lot more than he ever could aloud.

"Perhaps, she will. Perhaps the Black Sun will flourish and transform this area of space. But- we stand on the pillars of corruption, violence, and criminality. Perhaps some great change will usher us into being a legitimate government, an Empire or Republic." He did not sound sure. He said it so matter-of-factly. Like he always planned for the worst. Mauve was fighting an uphill battle as well- those within the Black Sun were always scheming. That was without question. Powerplays, murder, corruption, subterfuge to gain an edge, gain more power. Her position at the top was tenuous at the moment, at best. And enviable at worst.

"Or perhaps we will all burn for what we chose to do with our lives." That he sounded quite sure of. The Mandalorian, the killer, the clone, the soldier, the Commando, the hunter, the warrior, the murderer, all of the lives he lived, looked over at the Queen. He slowly pushed away from the bar, looking around the club. He needed a moment alone. And she wanted to speak to his boss. He wouldn't keep her much longer.

"I won't keep you anymore, your highness. But hopefully-" The lights shifted again. His handsome face lowered, perhaps in some sort of bow. Not that Mandalorians ever bowed. A pause. Searching for earnesty.

"Hopefully I can see you again."

The Mandalorian's eyes drifted over to Aiden Porte , then back to the Queen. He looked away, eyes downcast in a bit of shame as he turned away from the Queen and left her to her own devices and her business. His body shifted in a way, from the vulnerability back to his true stature.

And he-

He wanted to be left alone and go back to his duties- watching, observing. He turned away from her- his profile displaying the ever present damnation in his soul, self-inflicted hatred on a level unprecedented by any in the room. He walked away- but didn't leave the party. But his tone shifted. The villainous anger, the malice he entered with washed away, and now, only shame and regret lay on him.

Fenn Stag never quite looked so handsome, yet so brooding.​

 

[Aiden Porte]

Sibylla Abrantes Fenn Stag Eaton Waters
​

“Me? Yeah, a bit of an interesting location for this type of meeting, wouldn’t you agree?”

"Interesting is a word for it, something else could describe this entire thing all together. Strange...." Aiden said with a small chuckle as he raised his glass to the individual that had just joined them. Yet, his mind was still on the conversation going between Sibylla and their new friend. While he knew, she knew what she was doing. At the end of the day, he was in charge of keeping her safe, and well he didn't hope to have that sort of blood on his hands today.

Just as he was going to placed his hand on Sibylla's to get her attention he heard the small whispers in his comlink. Aiden didn't betray that fact as he moved his hand forward and gave Sibylla's a gentle nudge, the words of a deep cargo mine. And the name Kenari came across as he cleared his throat, as they weren't the only ones present tonight. Luckily it seemed that Fenn's conversation with her was just about over.

"I believe we have what we came for, my friend." Aiden said, showing Sibylla a small smile. Aiden gave a small nod to Fenn before he looked back over to Eaton. "My apologies for cutting this short, next time drinks are on me." The Jedi gave a slightl nod as he held his arm out for Sibylla if she wanted to take it.

Time was of the essence now.

 

[Sibylla Abrantes]

​

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

When Fenn's gaze returned to her as he spoke quietly before giving his farewell, Sibylla gave a small but respectful incline of her head.

"Thank you, Fenn," she said softly, sincerity threading through every syllable. "For your honesty... and for your company this evening."

She inclined her head slightly, pearls catching the shimmer of light as she added, "I wish you a good night. And if we meet again, may it be in amicable circumstances.”

It was only after he turned away and left through the crowd that Sibylla let her breath escape in a quiet exhale, feeling her pulse finally begin to slow. Good. That had gone better than expected.

Sibylla wasn't certain if she would ever see Fenn again, but she believed she had made a connection. Perhaps it would bear fruit one day, or perhaps it would be one of those choices she might come to regret. For now, she could at least appreciate the clarity he had given her, and the unexpected glimpse into Mauve du Vain 's world.

Aiden's movement at her side drew her attention as the murmurs of the party filled the wake of Fenn's departure, and she turned toward him with a faint, knowing nod, ready to leave. But as she lifted her gaze toward the far end of the bar, something...no a flash of someone, caught her eye.

A flash of blonde hair... and her heart stopped.

For an instant, Sibylla froze, every sense narrowing to the figure just beyond the crowd. It couldn't be. Her mind raced, her pulse quickened. When another patron stepped between them, breaking her line of sight, she found herself leaning slightly forward, searching the space where he had stood.

It was gone.

She blinked, forcing a steadying breath. The thought was impossible, irrational. Lysander. It couldn't have been him. He was likely back on Korriban. And yet the ghost of that familiar silhouette refused to fade from her thoughts.

Aiden's gentle nudge at her arm pulled her back to the present.

"Right... let's go," she murmured, her voice quiet, almost distant.

As he guided her from the bar, the lights of the fashion show flared behind them, and the echo of the crowd faded into a blur. Still, Sibylla's mind lingered on the Mandalorian's words, on the man who had bared his soul to her for a fleeting moment, and on the ghost of a boy she had once known.

Two faces, two shadows. Both now gone.

And yet, both still lingered.

~ Thread Exit ~​

 

[Torn Eskol]

B L A C K - S U N - S Y N D I C A T E
WHATS A GOD TO A NON-BELIEVER

SHADOWS WITH TEETH

"SPIDER"
​

His target was fixated on the women, the drinks, the art, the music. He had played, toyed with the idea of power. The Black Sun had sent Spider to remind him of the reality of that power. And unfortunately for the Mournish man before him- it was too late to rectify the mistakes. The Black Sun sent Spider after him, paid Spider a large sum, and then they'd collect every penny that Tevri ever made in his life as tribute and a reminder: even in death, their revenge was absolute. Tevri's life was not enough. His family, benefactors, debtors, no one would get a single red credit from his coffers upon death. Of all things Spider was sure of, that was absolute.

Tevri should've secured his position better. Perhaps more accomplished blackmail, perhaps a better plan to blackmail and collect evidence. To store it. He did it haphazardly, hiring couriers and lackeys. Easily broken chains of custody, easily traced. Receipts, cameras, physical and digital copies. Things that Tevri couldn't have dreamed of planning on or having done to protect his assets, protect himself.

And that's why Spider was crossing the room. Passed Tevri's inattentive guard. Media and books made assassinations more romantic than they were. For Spider, it was something simple. He bumped into him- and brought up a small injector. It put a small pellet into the Mournish's skin. The prick was barely noticeable, and the bump into him was the perfect cover. Spider apologized profusely, trying to appear the awkward lower-class lackey of someone else. A valet, or an assistant of some kind. Maybe a guard, if one was attentive to how he was built and scanned the room.

And in a few hours, when Tevri was well on his own, the time-released capsule would finally break down in his blood, and release the agent inside, and cause his blood to coagulate in his brain, and kill him. Spider counted on a host of drugs in his system, but even if foul play was discovered-

Who would look into it, and who would dare cross paths with the Black Sun?

Spider walked further into the crowd, hateful Keshian eyes pulling up only slightly inbetween flashes of light and shadow. A rare, but well-earned grin of a job well done. And like the knife in the dark he was- Spider disappeared from view, and enjoyed the party for a while longer before fading away.
Not for any reasons of cover or alibis or deniability, no, he really did want to enjoy the party.

Exit.

​

 

[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

Eira shrugged her shoulders, "perhaps. I doubt a temple devoted to such weakness would have much in the way of priceless artefacts but we can always see." Eira sniffed that such beliefs were still allowed, it was a pathetic grasp at strength where none was given. Faith in the non-existent that only ensured their demise. Proven by the presence of Eira and CT-312. They were going to remind the worshippers that real gods were around them and were more powerful than their weak minds could comprehend. It was a delicious taste that lingered in her mind, thinking of the chaos they would wreak upon them.

Looking over to the large shark man, Eira chuckled, "well. I suppose either we should be glad someone that crazy is on our side or disappointed we don't get to find out if he tastes like shark or humanoid?" A dark, twisted grin appeared on Eira's lips as she continued to stride forward. "Then inform them that if they want more, it is going to cost them a fortune." Eira smirked, turning these priests into crazy addicts seemed a cruel but amusing twist of circumstances. "Hmmm, perhaps get the Black Sun to donate some gizka to infest the temple. Let them breed and end up with so many that you can't get rid of them."

Walking up to the temple's door entrance, Eira looked over to CT-312, "how shall we begin then?" Curious to see which idea called the most to the soldier and a little hopeful that they would be sticking together. While it made more practical sense to split off and do their own thing to get the maximum amount of chaos done. Eira was enjoying the time that she was spending with the trooper, not wanting that to end yet.

 

[CT-312]

//: Eira Dyn | OPEN //:
//: Blessed Order of the Sacred Pulsar temple, Nal Hutta //:
//: Attire //:
//: Objective 1: Desecration //:

CT-312 didn’t care for temples. The moment she stepped farther inside, the air felt heavy with incense and stale appreciation. Two things the Scout had no use for. Faith, weakness, devotion… it all blended into the same category for her. CT-312 muttered, “People devote themselves to the weirdest and most pathetic things.” Giving a small dismissive shrug. Armor plates shifted softly. Her visor swept over the rows of cracked idols and toppled relics. “We’ll probably find something in here to blackmail or sell later on.” There was always someone out in the galaxy willing to pay.

Her helmet tilted toward Eira, as she made a comment about what the shark-like creature might taste like. Earned a slight lift of CT-312’s brow. The galaxy was full of aquatic species consumed as delicacies. This one just happened to walk upright and swing a weapon. “Both.” She couldn’t deny the thought had quietly brushed her mind too. A soft ping flashed across her HUD.

[ BARCA ]
[ ARRIVAL - DROIDS ]

CT-312 began typing commands on her left vambrace’s holo-keypad. Pale blue light washed over her gloves as lines of code scrolled rapidly. “The droids just got here.” Stepping forward, boots echoing lightly on the temple’s marble floor. “They’ll be renovating this place to a Temple of Betting.”

She shook the spray can a couple of times. Turning to the nearest white stone column, CT-312 pressed the nozzle. Psshhhhtttt. A burst of pigment sprayed across the surface. Paint splattered in uneven blotches. “This place needs new colors.” Steady streaks followed as her hand moved with precision. Green, tans, browns. More splotches, more uneven patterns. “Maybe some camo.”

Shouts of triumph as the thugs continued their pillaging in the background. Something about cracking open another chest. This assignment was strange. No explosives. No bodies to clear. Just paint, spice, petty humiliations, and creative chaos. CT-312 almost preferred guard duty to this level of… tameness. Hard to believe she was spending shore leave with a paint can instead of an ordinance. She didn’t doubt the assassin probably felt the same way as well. “What’s your take on missions like this?” Shifting her aim and spraying another angle across the stone column to the wall. Pigment splattered in controlled arcs as CT-312 continued methodically marking, spraying neat angled patterns.

The Scout stepped back to assess her work. The camouflage pattern was clean and even. Oddly satisfying. ‘Not bad.’ That was a good-looking camo pattern. Better than this assignment deserved. “Maybe we won’t have to wait long after the renovations are done.” Visor reflecting the newly vandalized pillars and walls.

The temple wouldn’t stay peaceful much longer. And for once, that had nothing to do with fire or blood.

 

[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

Eira couldn't agree more with the scout on the fact that people devoted themselves to the craziest of things. It was usually beliefs in deities that confused and confounded Eira. Why devote yourself to someone else who would ultimately fail you? They were never going to fulfil every prayer or need you had and anyone who failed to deliver on the prayers of the devoted was not someone that Eira found worthy of worship in her own mind. Plenty of people would forever hold her respect and loyalty, worship was something completely different to that and she had never seen a person worthy of that. Blind faith was just weak people being fools in the hopes that blindness would somehow reward them.

"Just send it to Quinn or the Vigos then, let them decide what is worthy to blackmail or keep. They are going to have a better eye for that kind of deal than we will anyway." Eira stated, not taking too much of her time to focus on the differing idols that were broken and thrown around. When CT-312 commented both on the shark man, Eira grinned, "smart answer. Both does sound about right." Tapping her comms, she sent in for an order of gizka to be dumped at this temple. "The gizka will infest this ship in the next few days." Eira stated as she grabbed a spray can and gave it a vigorous shake.

Seeing that CT-312 was going for a camo approach in the redecorating, Eira grinned. "Maybe have some pieces of art for them to admire." Eira then started to spray paint certain body parts all over the temple. "Give them something to either feel inadequate about or awaken in them, don't you think?" Eira laughed deeply as she began to spray paint even more.

When asked about missions like this one, "tough. I don't like the fact we cannot kill anyone, seems a missed opportunity to hang some bodies around here. Maybe even do a blood eagle. Not sure if you know what that is, but it is a pretty way to display the body I would say." Which was a very Eira based interpretation of a vicious torture and killing method. "However, gives us ways to think outside the box more and a chance to chat and get to know one another better. Which is good for future missions." Eira stated as she looked over to CT-312, "what about yourself? What are your thoughts surrounding this mission?"

 

[CT-312]

//: Eira Dyn //:
//: Blessed Order of the Sacred Pulsar temple, Nal Hutta //:
//: Attire //:
//: Objective 1: Desecration //:

Pausing mid-spray at Eira’s causal mention of a blood eagle, CT-312’s gaze drifted upward toward the temple’s vast interior. The ceiling dome arched high above them. Plenty of surface and… potential. “Line the dome with a couple of detonation charges. They could have a sunroof.”

Bringing her focus back down to the wall in front of her, the camouflage pattern near Eira’s far more expressed body-part artwork. CT-312 leaned slightly back to compare the two. “Solid work.” She noted with a short approving nod. Turning back to continue her own tagging.

In her experience, squadmates came and went. Names rotated, units shifted, and assignments changed with every new drop. Rarely did CT-312 stay with a team long enough to bother learning anyone’s habits, nor cared to learn their name. But Eira resurfaced often, more often than chance would suggest. “Agreed.” echoing Eria’s earlier comment. Having squadmates who could actually perform their tasks increased mission success rates significantly. It was practical. Efficient. Something CT-312 could appreciate.

This mission? ‘Mundane.’ the Scout thought as she sprayed another angled stroke across the marble. It was tame. Absurdly tame, compared to the operations she was used to. But when CT-312 considered it from a different angle, she could at least justify it. “It can be viewed as some other form of training. Restraint, I suppose.” A far cry from the ease of destroying the problem outright. Still… she reasoned, there were tactical uses for jobs like this. “This type of job could also serve as a warning. Or be posed as amateurs.” Stepping back to adjust the spray angle. “False sense of security to the actual threat.” A soft chime sounded in her helmet.

[ BARCA ]
[ RENOVATIONS NEARING COMPLETION ]

CT-312 glanced over her shoulder, the droids she ordered were busy transforming the far end of the temple. Spice-laced incense burners replaced the original braziers. Holographic projectors were being mounted and neon strips layered across ancient carvings. Marble benches were rearranged into makeshift gambling stations. The droids were currently stacking crates into prize counters, hanging a flickering sign that read: 'BETTING HALL' in mismatched fonts.

“Seems the droids are almost done with the rest of the temple.” CT312 turned back to her wall to add a final streak of paint.

 

[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

There was no awareness on Eira's face on the idea that she had suggested a very dark and aggressive display of a body. A torturous method that many would see as barbaric. It seemed merely an art form for the young Sith. Perhaps that was because the Sith had twisted her mind or perhaps, that twisted mentality had always been there and just rose to the surface surrounded by those that she felt were more of a similar mind to her. A similar view on the galaxy than she had been raised around before.

Finishing the artwork that she felt the religious zealots of this ridiculous temple would despise, Eira was grinning to herself. "Not always thought of myself as particularly artistic. But quite a beautiful display if I don't say so myself." Eira chuckled, then looked over the finish work of CT-312, "that is pretty good as well. A fan of the forest style camo I see." Eira smirked, she had seen the soldier only ever in such camo, even if the environment was not always suitable for such camo disguise.

Nodding her head, "it does not necessarily display a strong or threatening message to those who call this temple home. While executions are not always seen as merciful or peaceful resolutions to conquering worlds. It demonstrates an iron resolve that rebellion and retaliation will not be accepted." And Eira knew from her historical studying that rebellions were far too successful in bringing down empires even in the height of their power.

"Good. Seems we can head off and get some drinks to toast to a successful mission. Or find a hunting range and let off some steam. Whichever you prefer." Eira suggested, figuring that a post mission celebration might be something friends would do and the idea was growing on her more with select individuals like 312.

 

[CT-312]

//: Eira Dyn //:
//: Blessed Order of the Sacred Pulsar temple, Nal Hutta //:
//: Attire //:
//: Objective 1: Desecration //:

As Eira spoke, CT-312 angled her visor slightly in her direction. Another soft chime pulsed through her helmet as BARCA sent an update.

[ BARCA ]
[ RENOVATIONS - COMPLETE ]

The Scout tossed the spray can over her shoulder without looking. “Job’s done.” It clattered across the marble floor, rolling away and settling against a discarded idol. CT-312 gave Eira a simple thumbs-up. “Why not both.” her tone even, as the visor tilt carried a hint of amusement. “Hunting range while drinking.”

With that, CT-312 turned toward the temple’s entrance. Neon reflections from the newly mounted gambling lights shimmered across the inside of the renovated temple. The air behind them was thick with spice-laced incense and paint fumes. The Scout and Assassin stepped out of the faux-casino temple ready for their own version of celebration.