Character
"We can buy it, if you want."
The voice of his companion wrenched Iothen back into reality. He suddenly became aware of his surroundings: they stood on the far edge of an art exhibition within a ballroom, windows on all sides overlooking a city skyline over which a red sun was starting to retreat behind the skyscrapers. The pieces arranged were handpicked to accentuate the setting sun, pieces with glass and precious stones that would refract the waning sunlight and decorate the ballroom ceiling with ethereal, multicolored fractals. This wasn’t the main attraction—far from it.
A small hand gingerly came up to feel the back of his arm as a pink-faced Mirialan leaned over to the glass casing, her green eyes scanning the piece: a traditional Stanimirian dress sporting the classic arrangement of crystals, silks, ribbons and bells. The warm light of the ballroom made the crystals shine and twinkle with a delightful vigor, a snapshot of the joyous Stanimirian ballets his childhood had been blessed with.
The Pythi, or "Kyber crystals," were all meticulously arranged in delicate patterns, twinkling alongside colorful silk sewn into shapes of leaves and flowers. Braided ribbons with bells hung off the ends of the skirt, hanging limply where they should have been swinging around to drumbeats and hymns.
He was surprised that the thing hadn't been scrapped for the Pythi. His planet certainly hadn't been shown a similar courtesy. It could've been that the crystals themselves weren't as potent as they might've been on a real ballerina—the dance itself was an exchange of energy that enriched the Pythi. On an unmoving individual, they simply dulled and waned.
"Did you know this was going to be here?" he asked under his breath, almost secretively. His sponsor didn't answer immediately, instead pursing her lips and giving an innocent shrug. "Circe…"
"I thought it would help your mood."
"My mood? My mood is fine."
"You've been so quiet lately."
"Is that why you dragged me all the way out to Coruscant?"
"Not just that—there's a lot of important people here tonight. We're mingling."
"Mingling…" he echoed halfheartedly.
A comfortable silence settled over the two as they fixed their gaze on the dress. Iothen did want it, he supposed. He wanted it to be out of these nobles' hands. Maybe he'd put it in a glass pane so he'd see it every time he woke up… maybe he would even forget that he was on Mirial instead of his home planet. Maybe his dreams would be infiltrated by laughing, spinning women with bright smiles. But, even if he had it all to himself, it still wouldn't dance. He could give it to Badger, even though it was a woman's attire. But Badger didn't dance anymore—the flickers of his ballet training often shone through when he fought, but such violence was a far cry from his first and most beloved discipline.
"Duchess!" Again, Iothen's attention was unpleasantly commandeered by an Ithorian gentleman forcing himself between the two. "I simply can't believe it. Who knew you were an art buff, eh, Darr? You know, the Keigan deal went so well after that diner party you hosted back in…" Iothen lost track of what he was saying as he steered Circe away and to another group of loudmouthed nobles, all itching to talk about social minutiae and other annoyances. As she stumbled away Circe shot Iothen an apologetic smile that he returned politely.
He was disappointed to see Circe go—her presence was essentially a social safety net. She was a master at deflecting difficult questions, rebounding with witty remarks, pinpointing and appealing to the sensibilities of everyone she spoke to. Without her, the art exhibition they were attending was just a hazy sea of networking, handshakes, and insincere smiles. That wasn't to say he couldn't deal with it—he'd been schmoozing his whole life. He could navigate a conversation just as smoothly as the duchess or any stuck-up noble at this event… he just didn't relish in it like the others seemed to.
He turned his gaze back to the dress. Perhaps it was time to move on. There was no point in recounting every shard of crystal sewn into the fabric for the third time, and the mannequin's blank face certainly wasn't getting any less creepy. Truthfully, he was afraid that he'd never see something like it again. Maybe just a few more minutes, he decided. It wasn't like it was going anywhere.
Sandro
The voice of his companion wrenched Iothen back into reality. He suddenly became aware of his surroundings: they stood on the far edge of an art exhibition within a ballroom, windows on all sides overlooking a city skyline over which a red sun was starting to retreat behind the skyscrapers. The pieces arranged were handpicked to accentuate the setting sun, pieces with glass and precious stones that would refract the waning sunlight and decorate the ballroom ceiling with ethereal, multicolored fractals. This wasn’t the main attraction—far from it.
A small hand gingerly came up to feel the back of his arm as a pink-faced Mirialan leaned over to the glass casing, her green eyes scanning the piece: a traditional Stanimirian dress sporting the classic arrangement of crystals, silks, ribbons and bells. The warm light of the ballroom made the crystals shine and twinkle with a delightful vigor, a snapshot of the joyous Stanimirian ballets his childhood had been blessed with.
The Pythi, or "Kyber crystals," were all meticulously arranged in delicate patterns, twinkling alongside colorful silk sewn into shapes of leaves and flowers. Braided ribbons with bells hung off the ends of the skirt, hanging limply where they should have been swinging around to drumbeats and hymns.
He was surprised that the thing hadn't been scrapped for the Pythi. His planet certainly hadn't been shown a similar courtesy. It could've been that the crystals themselves weren't as potent as they might've been on a real ballerina—the dance itself was an exchange of energy that enriched the Pythi. On an unmoving individual, they simply dulled and waned.
"Did you know this was going to be here?" he asked under his breath, almost secretively. His sponsor didn't answer immediately, instead pursing her lips and giving an innocent shrug. "Circe…"
"I thought it would help your mood."
"My mood? My mood is fine."
"You've been so quiet lately."
"Is that why you dragged me all the way out to Coruscant?"
"Not just that—there's a lot of important people here tonight. We're mingling."
"Mingling…" he echoed halfheartedly.
A comfortable silence settled over the two as they fixed their gaze on the dress. Iothen did want it, he supposed. He wanted it to be out of these nobles' hands. Maybe he'd put it in a glass pane so he'd see it every time he woke up… maybe he would even forget that he was on Mirial instead of his home planet. Maybe his dreams would be infiltrated by laughing, spinning women with bright smiles. But, even if he had it all to himself, it still wouldn't dance. He could give it to Badger, even though it was a woman's attire. But Badger didn't dance anymore—the flickers of his ballet training often shone through when he fought, but such violence was a far cry from his first and most beloved discipline.
"Duchess!" Again, Iothen's attention was unpleasantly commandeered by an Ithorian gentleman forcing himself between the two. "I simply can't believe it. Who knew you were an art buff, eh, Darr? You know, the Keigan deal went so well after that diner party you hosted back in…" Iothen lost track of what he was saying as he steered Circe away and to another group of loudmouthed nobles, all itching to talk about social minutiae and other annoyances. As she stumbled away Circe shot Iothen an apologetic smile that he returned politely.
He was disappointed to see Circe go—her presence was essentially a social safety net. She was a master at deflecting difficult questions, rebounding with witty remarks, pinpointing and appealing to the sensibilities of everyone she spoke to. Without her, the art exhibition they were attending was just a hazy sea of networking, handshakes, and insincere smiles. That wasn't to say he couldn't deal with it—he'd been schmoozing his whole life. He could navigate a conversation just as smoothly as the duchess or any stuck-up noble at this event… he just didn't relish in it like the others seemed to.
He turned his gaze back to the dress. Perhaps it was time to move on. There was no point in recounting every shard of crystal sewn into the fabric for the third time, and the mannequin's blank face certainly wasn't getting any less creepy. Truthfully, he was afraid that he'd never see something like it again. Maybe just a few more minutes, he decided. It wasn't like it was going anywhere.
Sandro