Populate Where the Light Gathers | THR Populate of Siskeen

[Cynan Obaith]

Objective: 3
Outfit: Suit
Tags: Fallon Draellix-Kobitana

"I am not sure, some of these senators feel more likely to call for your head than a Sith. Though I must admit, I have little experience with the latter and probably far too much with the former." Cynan gave a deep laugh with Fallon, enjoying the laughter that escaped from her. "I will have to trust your assessment of the Sith."

There was no resistance from Cynan as Fallon guided him to the dancefloor. He had extended the invitation in hopes that she would follow up. Cynan allowed Fallon to guide where she felt appropriate for his hand to be place, his fingers gently caressing the curve of her waist before his hand settled into place. There was a glint in his dark eyes of joy for this moment to arrive. Hearing that Fallon desired for Cynan to lead the dance now that he had been whisked to the dancefloor.

Cynan made sure to waste no time. Keeping Fallon close to his body, moving in time with the beat of the music. Cynan was decent dancer, able to give an exciting and intimate dance without crossing the line so that it might be seen as scandalous for others to be watching the pair. "I am very glad that we have been able to cross paths once again, Miss Draellix-Kobitana. I had hoped I would have heard from you before tonight after I gave you my contact information."

Offering the notion that Fallon had not strayed far from Cynan's thoughts since their first encounter on Geonosis. It would also be clear form the leading manner that Cynan was doing in the dance that he was allowing Fallon to demonstrate all the flair and beauty she could to dazzle all. Letting Fallon to appear as the superior and more graceful dancer out of the two. A clear attempt to not only hide the skills he held himself in dancing but also wanting to empathise that Fallon was someone that all in a room should desire to speak and be present around.

 

[Davik Haize]

OBJ III.
Casaana

Jedi?
Davik abruptly stopped his fruitless cataloguing and looked up. He watched her laugh loud enough the table was shaking but it was the hilt clipped to her belt that took his attention. How did I not notice before?

Blurred images flashed through his mind again, this time sharpened to recognition, but still lacking coherence: the sulfur, dead eyes of a Sith staring at him; a torn arm wielding a red saber in Davik's hand; Davik discharging his blaster pistol – a weapon he carried only for show, a weapon forbidden by his teachings as a Warden; emptying the mag point-blank at soldiers who had surrendered, and looking behind at the stupor of fear drawn over Tapani faces before Davik herded them on the ship; and Naboo, filling the void of the ships viewscreen; and his hands drowned in another's blood; and his dry lips cracking into a grin.

Half a minute had gone -- maybe more. Casaana watched him, waiting for an answer. His mind was reeling, and he snapped, "Eyes like what, Jedi?", staring back at her. The old resentment he felt for the Jedi had stirred and crept out of its confines when his control had slipped. Why am I taking it out on her??

Davik shook his head, yanking the reins of his own self. Control. Focus. Breathe. The droid wasn't the key, it was her. He was quick to say, automatically, "Modified freighters, fitted for boarding, patrol, search and rescue. Until I lost mine in service to the Crown here."​

 

[Pari Sylune]

Wearing: x

"I also... your dress.... It's like a galaxy... cool."

"Oh thank you. One of the girls from the Sanctuary lent it to me. It's quite nice isn't it?"

Where he seemed a bundle of nerves Pari was calm and poised. the young girl had a sense of spirituality about her that made her seem wise and comfortable even when she was in a nerve wracking situation.

"dance? Do...phew...yeah...do you want to dance?"

His next question howwever did cause a little bit of a jolt of nerves, even if she did not show it. "Sure!" She took his hand and lead him out onto the dance floor. "I've never danced before. Have you?" She glanced around at the others on the dance floor to see what they were doing.

Aileni Ifor Xeraic

 

[Aileni Ifor Xeraic]

Objective: BYOO - Teen Chaos!
Outfit: Suit
Tag: Pari Sylune

When Pari took his hand, Aileni was surprised with the forwardness that she displayed. Was dancing something that Pari really enjoyed? Did she notice that his hand was a little sweaty due to his nerves? It would be rude to pull his hand away to while it dry, right? How did anyone cope with these reactions and feelings? It was crazy how overwhelming it could all feel.

"I... Not really?" Aileni confessed, looking around to see others dancing and how they moved. "I...erm...I normally just jump around like a fool to music, or just bobbing my head to the beat." Formal dances, or stylish moves were not something that Aileni had any real experience with. "I did hear that some believe dancing can be just very similar to fighting. So maybe we just move in sync, following each other's movements?"

He swallowed hard, trying to get better at how nervous he felt about it all. His heart felt like it was racing a million beats per minute. This was the closest Aileni had really been with someone his own age for a long time. Everyone else around him felt years older and far more experienced with life.

"Don't know who should lead us though... Do, do you want to lead?" Aileni didn't want to presume he led the dancing, especially since they were similarly inexperienced.

 

[Pari Sylune]

"I did hear that some believe dancing can be just very similar to fighting. So maybe we just move in sync, following each other's movements?"

"Oh that sounds like a good idea. If we think of it as a training exercise we don't have to be mervous." She smiled brightly at him. He asked if she wanted to lead and she nodded, taking a big deep breath.

"Sure.... let's try to do what the others are doing..." She looked around and saw that the men had their hand on the womens waist so she took his hand and put it on her waist, then held his other. She took a step forward and of course she stepped right on his foot!

"Oh I'm sorry! are you okay?"



Aileni Ifor Xeraic

 

[Adelle Bastiel]

Objective II - The Grand Ballroom
Tags: Ivalyn Yvarro | Indirect: Aurelian Veruna | Rayna Lockley | Sibylla Abrantes | Ulysses Renoux

“Good girl.”

Oh Corellia’s fething nine hells.

Those two words whispered in her ear brought Adelle’s brain to a screeching halt. Her heart stuttered and her lungs forgot to draw in air. Heat flushed her cheeks even as Adelle cursed her loss of control. She could not be flirting with a married woman.

And Whills dammit, it looked like Yvarro knew exactly what she was doing.

Adelle had been about to respond when the Grand Vizier pressed her advantage.

"You move quite well." A pause, breath measured. "I imagine that translates rather impressively beyond a ballroom."

She managed to turn the strangled sound threatening to escape into clearing her throat but the redness of her cheeks deepened. The glance the Grand Vizier gave her hands did not help. Adelle hated how much Yvarro had her chain code without even trying. But her next words did provide an out which Adelle desperately needed.

“If it’s self-defense training you require,” she said, trying and failing to keep her voice even, “I can provide. I’ll warn you though, I don’t pull my punches.”

They turned one last time and Adelle felt the moment ease enough she didn’t feel like she was fighting for air. The orchestra moved into another piece, slower, a solitary melody weaving its way. It allowed Adelle to steady her breathing and regain a little equilibrium.

Yvarro’s eyes pinned her to the spot, however briefly.

And it was then she chose to be her most devastating.

Whills fething dammit.

The unspoken but very clear implication was not allowed to linger for very long. The Grand Vizier brushed it aside like a gossamer curtain, present enough to be noticed, thin enough it required no effort to put behind you.

“You,” Adelle said slowly, even as she took the offered hand, “are terribly unfair. I’ll remember that.”

Yvarro led her over to a smaller bar located within the ballroom itself, much quieter than the open bar offered elsewhere. Adelle was acutely aware of the woman’s hand just close enough to impart body heat on her back. She resisted the urge to lean on the bartop, refused to give Yvarro any more ammunition.

Not that she’d needed help.

Before Adelle could even reach for her own credit chit, Yvarro was sliding hers over and telling the bartender that Adelle’s drinks were on her.

“Horribly unfair,” Adelle muttered under her breath before ordering a Whyren’s Reserve.

Whills, she needed a drink.

 

[Warpriest Prime]

​

O B J E C T I V E | Ballroom
L O C A T I O N | Theed
G E A R | Gjallerhorn

Vytal Noctura

O P E N​

Dima listened. Really listened. That alone was new.

The marble beneath their steps gleamed like still water, lanternlight sliding across her armor in soft gold bands as the music swelled somewhere ahead. Politics, she was learning, did not announce itself with banners or blades. It hid in tone, in posture, in when you breathed and when you didn't. It made her itch in places no armor covered.

Vytal's words settled into her slowly, like embers sinking into ash.

She blinked. Once. Then twice.

Her grin died halfway, folding in on itself as if it had been scolded. The faint chitter along her cheeks stuttered, uncertain, before stilling entirely.

"R-really?" she murmured, instinctively touching the side of her mouth with a claw. "I'm not...allowed to smile?" Her head dipped, shoulders drawing in despite the fact she still towered over nearly everyone in the courtyard. "Is there something in my teeth?"

She caught herself clinging just a bit tighter to Vytal as they walked, as though the Witch were a fixed star in a room full of drifting constellations. The irony of it wasn't lost on her. Executioner of empires, bane of warlords, suddenly undone by etiquette and marble floors.

She noticed the looks then. The sharp glances that snapped away when caught. The hunger. The fear. The calculation. Her five eyes tracked them without meaning to, and for once she didn't bare her fangs back. She simply breathed.

When Vytal asked her question, Dima tilted her head, thinking hard enough that the motion pulled at the braid in her hair.

"Uhhhhhh..." she started, then rocked her head side to side. "I know a lot of people." A beat. "But I don't think I know where anyone lives." Her tail gave a small, self-conscious flick. "Except Mandalorians, cause a lot of us are 'from' the same places. And...you."

She worried a strand of hair around one claw, voice dropping into something smaller, more earnest.

"Is that bad?" she asked. "Do I...have to know someone from here to be allowed in?" A pause, then softer, almost hopeful. "I just wanted to show up. Be seen. Be...normal. For once."

She glanced ahead toward the ballroom doors, where music and voices spilled together like wine.

"I can fight a war without blinking," Dima added quietly. "But this?" A huff of breath, not quite a laugh. "This feels like walking into a battlefield where I don't know which way the blades point!"

Her eyes lifted back to Vytal, searching. "...I'll try not to grin," she mumbled quietly as she looked Vytal over and bit her lip. "I um, like your outfit~" She shyly mused as she purred deeply at the thought.

 

[Aileni Ifor Xeraic]

Objective: BYOO - Teen Chaos!
Outfit: Suit
Tag: Pari Sylune

He watched in stunned silence as Pari guided his hand to be placed on her waist. He looked around and saw that was the common placement for where one hand was. Aileni swallowed hard, breathing in deeply to quell the nerves. "Hand goes there, sure...yeah..." He followed the lead set by Pari, thankful that he didn't have to think of the movements as well as how intimate all this felt.

When Pari stepped on his foot, Aileni blinked, he didn't feel any pain from it. Just the pressure of the foot being on his. "It's...it's fine, don't fret." He offered a warm smile to reassure Pari that the stumble did not cause an issue. "We stumble but we'll nail this!" Aileni encouraged, not wanting to dampen the spirits.

Aileni followed Pari's movements, he was moving in a stiff manner but making sure not to cause an issue and avoid getting stepped on again.

 

[Aurelian Veruna]

Tags: Rayna Lockley | Sibylla Abrantes | Ulysses Renoux | Adelle Bastiel | Ivalyn Yvarro

Aurelian took another drink, slower this time, eyes narrowing slightly at her answer. Nar Shaddaa. Of course it was. He almost laughed.

"I hardly call Nar Shaddaa neutral," he said, tone light but edged. "Or discreet, depending on who's watching and how much they're paid." His gaze slid briefly back to the dance floor. Sibylla turned smoothly under Ulysses' hand. Still smiling. Still radiant. Still doing this on purpose.

He looked back to Rayna. Focus. Try.

"The Republic has more enemies in that stretch of the galaxy than it likes to admit," he continued. "Some of them wear suits. Some of them don't bother." He tilted his glass once, conceding the point without yielding ground. "Don't get me wrong. A quiet operation with rapid response is favorable."

His eyes drifted again. The dip. The laugh. That damned laugh. His jaw tightened before he pulled his attention back by force.

"But loyalty," he said, more quietly now, "is where these arrangements usually rot." He studied Rayna's face, sharp and intent. "How do I assure Silvane's loyalty? What happens when someone else pays a higher price?"

The question wasn't hypothetical. It never was.

He paused, then let a crooked smile tug at his mouth, mischief bleeding back in where irritation had been. "Actually," he added, lowering his voice, "I'd like you to answer that, but whisper it."

He shifted closer, just enough, and lightly touched her arm with two fingers. A suggestion, not a demand. His attention split cleanly in two, half fixed on her, half still chained to the movement of green silk across the floor.

"And before you answer," he murmured, "you should know I'm playing a game tonight." His smile sharpened. "I plan on winning. I hope that doesn't trouble you."

His eyes flicked once more toward Sibylla, then back to Rayna, bright and dangerous.

​

 

[Ivalyn Yvarro]

The Grand Vizier paused briefly at the bar, resting one gloved hand against the cool stone of the counter.

"An Anaxes 75," she said calmly, her voice carrying just enough authority to forestall questions. "Extra citrus, please."

Gin, champagne, lemon, clean, sharp, deliberate. She waited as the bartender moved to prepare it, turning slightly away from the counter as if the drink itself were only an interlude. Her attention returned to Adelle, her expression thoughtful, amused.

"I should hope not," Ivalyn replied evenly to the Mandalorian's remark about holding punches. "No one wants a fraud… when they can have the real thing."

She allowed a breath to settle between them.

"What fun would there be in learning to fight," she continued, one shoulder lifting in a mild, almost playful shrug, "without taking a few hits along the way?"

A soft chuckle followed at Adelle's protest of unfairness, warmth threading through it. "Ah, well. In this galaxy, fairness tends to be the preferred ideology of naïve Jedi and their ilk."

The glass slid across the counter.

Ivalyn accepted the Anaxes 75 with a nod, fingers closing around the stem with practiced ease. Only then did she step closer again, her attention fully on Adelle. One hand lifted, two fingers settling lightly beneath the Mandalorian's chin, just enough to tilt it upward, delicate rather than demanding.

"Fret not, Miss Bastiel," Ivalyn murmured, her tone low and unhurried. "I rather look forward to being in your hands."

She took a measured sip, eyes never leaving Adelle's as she did, then eased back, connection broken as cleanly as it had been made.

"I'll have my secretary contact your Mand'alor," she added, composed once more, offering a small nod of acknowledgment. "We'll be in touch soon. I promise."

A hint of mischief curved her smile as she turned away, the crowd already parting naturally to make room for her passage. The gala reclaimed her attention as she moved on, leaving behind the unmistakable impression that this was not an ending.

Only a pause.

And a very deliberate one.

[OPEN TO INTERACTION]
[Interacting with Adelle Bastiel
[Courtesy Tags: Aurelian Veruna | Emilia Locke | Dominique Vexx | Sibylla Abrantes | Aiden Porte​

 

[Pari Sylune]

She smiled apologetically again, but he didn't seem hurt. Thankfully, Pari was still a relatively small little girl, so the chances of her actually breaking his toes were slim. Even so, she was determined not to step on him again.

She took his hand once more, and together they began to move, step right, then left, slowly turning in a careful circle. It wasn't nearly as graceful as the adults gliding effortlessly around them, but it was much better than their first attempt.

"I think we're doing it!" she said, grinning at him, finally comfortable enough to lift her gaze from her feet.

"Well," she added with a soft laugh, "I never thought learning to dance would be part of my Padawan journey… but this is actually kind of fun."



Aileni Ifor Xeraic

 

[Rayna Lockley]

Rayna watched him for a moment longer than necessary.

Not to provoke never that but to let the shape of the moment finish forming. The narrowed eyes. The drink taken slower. The way his attention kept betraying him, slipping back to the dance floor like a reflex he hadn't yet learned to master. It all registered, layered neatly with the faint emotional static brushing her awareness. Restless. Competitive. Bruised pride wrapped in silk and ceremony.

When she spoke again, her tone was calm, grounded professional first.

"You're right," she said easily. "Nar Shaddaa isn't neutral. Not in the pure sense."

She didn't flinch from it. There was no point pretending otherwise.

"But it is permissive," Rayna continued, lifting her glass slightly as if to mark the distinction. "It allows a freedom of movement most worlds don't provided the correct people are appeased and expectations are kept realistic. That latitude lets us act where others can't. Quietly. Decisively."

She turned just enough to face him more fully now, expression composed, eyes clear.

"As for loyalty," she went on, voice lowering a fraction, "Silvane doesn't sell it to the highest bidder. Once we're under contract, we do not operate against that client. Not for credits, not for pressure, not because another contractor wants a different outcome."

She let that statement breathe before continuing on.

"That does limit our participation," Rayna acknowledged. "Which necessitates, our prices being adjusted for that. We decline work that undermines existing agreements, and we won't partner with destabilizing forces. Our interest is stability. Always has been. It's not ideal for everyone but it is predictable."

Her gaze flicked briefly, deliberately, to where his attention kept straying green silk, laughter, motion then back to him, a faint, knowing smile touching her lips.

"And I already know you're playing a game, you aren't quite as subtle as you think your highness." she said softly.

She inclined her head, the gesture subtle, almost elegant. Amused now but not indulgent, but gently entertained.

"You keep looking away," Rayna added, matter-of-fact. "If you weren't trying to be seen doing something, you wouldn't need an audience."

Then at his request, and only then she stepped closer.

Not enough to crowd him. Just enough to close the space he'd already invited open well into his personal space.

Rayna leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper meant for him alone, breath barely brushing his ear.

"I'll let you win," she murmured, the hint of a smile in her tone. "Consider it a complimentary demonstration of Silvane's… flexibility in delicate situations."

She straightened again immediately, reclaiming her space, her composure fully intact. The glass returned to her hand. The distance restored.

Aloud once more, her voice was calm, professional, unruffled.

"Should the Republic wish to discuss terms," Rayna finished evenly

She waited amused, observant, and entirely in control well aware that whatever game he thought he was playing, she had already shown him exactly how Silvane operated when discretion mattered most.
​

TAG: Aurelian Veruna
Indirect TAG: Sibylla Abrantes Adelle Bastiel Bastila Sal-Soren Ulysses Renoux

 

[Renn Vizsla]

E L A G A N C E

Tag: OPEN




Night had already claimed Theed by the time the doors of the Grand Naboo Ballroom stirred again.

Not with the hurried rustle of servants or the polite arrival of another delegation, but with a deliberate pause, the kind that precedes a statement.

The music softened. Conversations thinned. Heads turned.

The tall doors of polished alabaster parted, and Renn Vizsla stepped into the light.

For once, there was no beskar, no sigil of Death Watch etched into armored plate. Tonight, the Warmaster of Mandalore arrived as something rarer, and, in its own way, more dangerous.

An ambassador.

He wore a tuxedo cut with Mandalorian severity: sharp lines, tailored precision, nothing wasted. A white jacket rested easily on his broad shoulders, pristine but not soft, worn like armor reimagined for a different battlefield. Beneath it, a dark vest lay close to his frame, its buttons catching the chandelier light as he moved, the shirt beneath open just enough to suggest confidence rather than indulgence. The look was austere, intentional, formal wear designed by a culture that believed presentation was as much a weapon as any blade.

His long dark hair fell straight down his back, unbound, framing a face more often seen behind a T-visor than beneath crystal chandeliers. Set upon his brow was a thin, ceremonial circlet, golden leaves wrought in old Mandalorian style, an echo of victory laurels and rulership both. It caught the light softly, forming a faint halo against the domed ceiling’s painted stars, not divine, not theatrical, simply inevitable.

Renn paused just inside the threshold.

Not out of hesitation.

Out of respect.

His gaze swept the ballroom in a slow, measured arc: Naboo nobility in mourning silks, senators weighed down by conscience as much as ceremony, Jedi standing watchful and quiet along the periphery. And there, Tapani survivors, unmistakable even amid grandeur. Not because of how they dressed, but because of how they stood. Upright. Unbowed. Seen.

Good, Renn thought, as they should be.

Only then did he move.

Each step across the marble floor was unhurried, the stride of a man accustomed to rooms falling silent when he entered them. Whispers followed him in soft, uncertain waves, Mandalorian, Warmaster, Vizsla, but he offered no acknowledgment. No smile. No challenge. He carried himself with the calm authority of someone who did not need to prove why he belonged.

A Naboo herald announced him at last, voice echoing beneath the constellations.

“Renn Vizsla, Ambassador of the Mandalorian Empire to Naboo.”

The title mattered here. He let it settle.

At the foot of the central dais, Renn inclined his head, precise, formal, to the hosts of the evening and to the banners that marked this gathering not as a celebration, but as a declaration. Unity, written in silk and crystal. Resolve, spoken without raising a voice.

His eyes lifted again, sharp and assessing.

This was not Sundari. There would be no feasting hall debates settled by raised voices and scarred knuckles. This was Theed, where wars were waged with promises and pauses, with what was said, and what was conspicuously left unsaid.

Renn Vizsla was fluent in both.

He reached a waiting table and rested one gloved hand lightly against its edge, posture relaxed, presence unmistakable. For those watching closely, it was clear he had not come merely to observe.

Mandalore had sent him to listen.

To judge.

And when the moment came,
to speak with the full weight of a people who did not forget who stood with them when the galaxy burned.

The ball continued around him, music swelling once more, but the tone had shifted. Another player had entered the field.

And Renn Vizsla, Ambassador of the Mandalorian Empire, had taken his place on this most elegant of battlefields.

 

[Oriana Indupar]

Guinevere Cavello
​

Oriana gave a small, skeptical look before smoothing her face into something more neutral. It was easy to get lost in this crowd. Either way she would have to assume the Count was running late, busy, or decided to back out. She could easily reach out privately after this to see if the man wanted to speak in a much more intimate setting.

Instead the Duchess turned to the woman beside her.

"Princess, how goes wedding planning? Are you beginning to get excited or are you becoming dull due to the monotony of seating charts and ensuring no one is slighted depending on the arrangement and culture? I suppose that may depend on your groom and how his family also perceives such things."

 

[Guinevere Cavello]

​

Gwen had long since mastered the art of smiling through pain. It was a skill she leaned on now, because talk of the upcoming wedding was something she wanted no part of. If Lancel had his way, the engagement would already be undone. Together, they were carefully, almost desperately, trying to decide how best to arrange that outcome.


So there had been no flower picking, no seating charts, no humdrum joy that seemed to come so easily to every other bride in the galaxy. Just silence, and the weight of an expectation neither of them wanted to carry.


"Oh, well… we're taking our time," Gwen said lightly. "It all happened so quickly, and with his brother's passing, we want to wait. Make sure we're being respectful."

It was as good an excuse as any, one that neatly steered the conversation away from weddings, at least for now.

She didn't linger there. Instead, Gwen offered a gentle smile and shifted the subject.

"How is your son, Cyrus Drayen V? Is he walking yet?"

Oriana Indupar​

 

[Merryn Sellek]

Ivalyn Yvarro
​

An arm would snake around the waist of the Grand Vizier once she had taken a few steps more into the party, a voice whispering against her ear, "I step away for a few minutes, and you start torturing Mandalorians. Darling, I would think you'd rather be in my hands, hmm?"

It had been Ivalyn's idea to honeymoon in the Republic, and she certainly hadn't protested. Lady Raaf and the other executives of Aurora Industries were hoping to expand their footprint into the territory, so had that meant a working honeymoon for Merryn, yes. She had only stepped away for a few moments to start putting some feelers out to meet more directly with the new Chancellor or with Sibylla Abrantes or Aurelian Veruna on an official basis. A few polite words and offerings to start forming proposals to some lower dignitaries and such, get the repulsorlift active so to speak, and she had left Ivalyn to mingle.

"If you're looking for self-defense lessons, I should sit in on whatever you have planned with Miss Bestiel," she added, twirling her wife to face her and delicately plucking her drink away. "Offer you some pointers and all that. Lady Raaf always insisted that her executives go to martial arts training."

A small lie of omission, but Ivalyn didn't need to know the extent of her training. Her orders remained, and she would keep those as secret as her own powers.

 

[Elian Abrantes]

Isla Reingard Phillip Slate Voli Cholrass Meri Vale
​

He turned back toward the bar as if the conversation had concluded on his terms, lifting two fingers to catch the bartender's eye.

"Another," Elian said, voice easy. "And this time, make it something that tastes like I made a questionable decision and I am committing to it."

The bartender's mouth quirked, hands moving without hesitation. Bottles clinked. Ice cracked. A citrus peel flashed between fingers. Elian watched the motion like it was a small mercy, something simple and predictable in a night that had been neither.

Then he glanced up, scanning the flow of bodies in the colonnade, and his focus snagged hard.

Meri.

For a second, he looked genuinely surprised, like the sight of her had tugged him out of his own head. He straightened a fraction on the stool, the slyness on his face shifting into something warmer before he could stop it.

"Hey," he called, and his smile turned real around the edges. "Meri."

He lifted his hand in a small wave, as if she might vanish if he moved too quickly.

"I did not know you were coming," Elian added, and there was honest relief in the words, the kind he would deny if anyone tried to name it. He slid off the stool and angled himself toward her, making space at the bar with a tilt of his shoulder.

"Come save me," he said lightly, but the request carried more truth than the joke.

 

[Meri Vale]

Meri had almost talked herself out of coming. Almost.

The Naboo Palace at night was overwhelming in a way that had nothing to do with noise or crowds and everything to do with beauty. Lantern light skimmed marble like water, and the air itself seemed to hum with expectation. She moved carefully through the colonnade, posture straight, steps measured, trying not to look like someone who still felt as if she were trespassing in places like this. Even if she was from a noble house.

Her dress helped. Simple, formal, and deliberately practical.

Deep plum fabric fell in clean lines to her calves, the cut elegant without being showy, the sleeves long enough to feel like armor. The tailoring was precise, Naboo work, soft where it needed to be, structured where it mattered. And yes, it had pockets. Real ones. Her hands slipped into them more than once, grounding herself in the familiar reassurance that she had planned ahead.

Her hair was loose for once, brushed smooth and allowed to fall in gentle, imperfect curls down her back. It felt strange not to have it braided, not contained, but tonight felt like the kind of evening where hiding too much would be noticeable in its own way.

She lingered at the edge of the western colonnade, watching diplomats laugh a little too loudly and officers loosen their shoulders by degrees. The open bar was doing exactly what it had been designed to do, and Meri observed it all with quiet fascination, cataloging tone and posture out of habit.

Then she heard her name. Her head lifted immediately. Elian.

For a heartbeat, she simply stood there, surprised and unmistakably glad to see him. Relief softened her expression before she could stop it, and she crossed the remaining distance to the bar with a small, careful smile.

"I didn't know I was coming either," Meri admitted lightly as she reached him, her voice warm but subdued, as if the night itself demanded restraint. She glanced at the drink being prepared, then back at him. "This place has a way of… insisting."

She took the offered space at the bar, resting her hands briefly on the marble before tucking them back into her pockets, her shoulders easing just a little now that she wasn't alone.

"You don't look beyond saving," she added, the faintest hint of humor threading through her words. "But I can sit with you. For moral support. Or… questionable decision supervision."

Her gaze flicked to his face again, more openly this time.

"I'm glad you're here," Meri said, simply, and meant it.

Elian Abrantes Isla Reingard Voli Cholrass Phillip Slate

 

[Ivalyn Yvarro]

"Well, of course," Ivalyn murmured, the words nearly a purr as she leaned in to whisper against Merryn's ear. "All in good time."

She straightened just enough to take a measured sip of her Anaxes 75, the citrus sharp and cooling. Over the rim of the glass, her gaze slid back toward the center of the ballroom, where the newly appointed Chancellor lingered amid a careful orbit of advisors and admirers.

There.

A familiar presence, just off to the Chancellor's right. Brunette. Observant. Close enough to matter.

Mmm, Ivalyn thought. Locke.

A name settling neatly into place with a face.

Merryn's voice drew her attention back, if only for a moment. "Yes, of course," she said of her wife wanting to sit-in on the lessons, "you may find it quite invigorating yourself." A small smirk tugged at the edge of her lips.

"Far more than simple self-defense lessons, my dear," Ivalyn replied quietly, her tone calm, assured. She lingered over her drink, considering her words as much as savoring them. "I intend to lead from the trenches."

She lowered the glass.

"How can I ask my guards, my armies, to fight," she continued evenly, "if I do not understand what I am asking of them?" A breath in, then out. Controlled. Certain. "When the time comes." And it would. There was no doubt in her voice. "I will stand with them. That requires more than knowing how to defend myself. I must know what it is to fight."

At Merryn's next remark, Ivalyn allowed a faint smile.

"Yes, how curious that Lady Raaf insists," she said lightly, lifting her glass once more. "Although, in this galaxy, it seems prudent that everyone be capable of protecting themselves."

Her attention shifted again, this time deliberately. She turned her body toward the Chancellor's cluster, already calculating approach and timing, and offered Merryn her arm.

"Come along, darling," Ivalyn said softly. "I believe that is Emilia Locke."

A pause, just enough to let intention surface.

"And I fully intend to speak with her. And with the Chancellor."

She began to move, the crowd yielding instinctively.

"It would do us well," Ivalyn added, almost pleasantly, "to make friends beyond the Blackwall."

And with that, she advanced, purpose clear, expression composed, every step carrying her precisely where she meant to go.

[OPEN TO INTERACTION]
[Interacting with Merryn Sellek ]
[Indirect Tags: Dominique Vexx | Quinn Varanin | Emilia Locke | Colette | Feridade Parthi ]​

 

[Ulysses Renoux]

H O U S E • R E N O U X​

Wearing: xxx
Tag: Sibylla Abrantes | Aurelian Veruna | Rayna Lockley

Ulysses did not turn his head right away, because he did not need to. The change came through Sibylla’s body before it ever reached her expression, through the smile that arrived a moment too quickly and the way her shoulders remained steady while something beneath them tightened. He had learned to read those things early, back when mistakes cost more than embarrassment and people rarely said what they meant aloud.

When he did look across the room, it was only for a moment. He saw the King of Naboo leaning too close, recognized the posture and the ease, and understood that the familiarity was meant to be noticed. It was enough to see what was being staged and for whom.

Aurelian knew what he was doing, as he always did. He knew who was watching as well. Men like him never confused attention for affection, but they did mistake it for control.

Ulysses had watched that mistake play out in more courts than he cared to remember. It always looked effortless from a distance, and it never was. Someone always paid for it in the end, and it was rarely the one enjoying the performance.

“A damned fool,” the Duke said quietly.

There was no sharpness in the words and no satisfaction. They carried the certainty of someone who had seen better men unravel in the same way.

Ulysses guided Sibylla through the next turn without changing the pressure of his lead. The dance remained smooth and uninterrupted, as though nothing in the room had shifted at all. The room could watch if it wished, but watching did not entitle it to anything.

As the music carried them on, the Duke adjusted their path by degrees, allowing the corner of the hall to drift out of view. The space ahead felt easier, closer to the tall doors where the air would be cooler and the noise less insistent.

“If you would like,” Ulysses said, his voice even and unhurried, “we could get some air.”

It was not an escape offered in haste, and it was not a gallant rescue disguised as concern. It was a choice extended without pressure by someone who understood that rooms lost their usefulness long before people admitted it.

Ulysses waited with his hand steady at her back and his attention fully returned to her, content to let the next move be hers.