Star Wars Roleplay: Chaos

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



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Objective Two
Nar Shaddaa | Fashion Show

A Little Party Never Killed Nobody
Interacting with: Aiden Porte Aiden Porte Fenn Stag Fenn Stag
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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 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.

 






"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 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 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.







 
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 Aiden Porte
 

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



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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.”


 
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//: Eira Dyn Eira Dyn | OPEN //:
//: Blessed Order of the Sacred Pulsar temple, Nal Hutta //:
//: Attire //:
//: Objective 1: Desecration //:
AD_4nXfxRgcX_ZR8-kC0rqm7lvSG8EOJOSL940dsU7OVzeVmup3dGax4Cdo-X1Ai2HPzuUrh9Y6hDIM-xiR_v30pnSC7pOoluQWUtgV0MzONnAotvKrplxED5btOvA5RLfqXgxU4NZXdDA

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 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 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.”

 
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Objective Two
Nar Shaddaa | Fashion Show

A Little Party Never Killed Nobody
Interacting with Aiden Porte Aiden Porte Fenn Stag Fenn Stag
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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 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 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 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.


 



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 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.


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






 

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