Pride and Promise

[Squee]

Tonight, there were a great many things to be grateful for. Tesa was grateful she’d chosen an open-backed dress with black sheer angel sleeves. Not only did they cover the majority of her new scars, but he air was outstandingly muggy and warm. She currently kept a black handkerchief folded, mostly hidden, in her hand so she could occasionally blot at her neck. There was also the faint smell of turpentine. Tesa eyeballed the torch nearest her, its flame a bright blaze orange and yellow, and deemed it the likely, smelly culprit.

There was also wine, for which one should always be grateful. Additional gratefulness could be applied to her exclusive access to the best vintage wine Octavius Vree had to serve. There were definite perks to being a business advisor. Being able to avoid tonight’s savage uniform worn by the waiters was another perk. Tesa surely hoped those feathers stayed out of the food and drink. She noted the cooks were allowed more protective coverings. They were stationed to the sides of the room, roasting a variety of wild meats over open fires. Tesa mopped her neck delicately.

A third grateful note: the business arrangement was going excellently. Tesa sipped her delicious wine, silently toasting to good negotiation and expensive parties. Tesa rested a hand on the railing, watching the small orchestra make final adjustments to their instruments. The conductor waited patiently. Then he straightened his back and small hands moved fluidly through the air. The first song had begun, more for guest entertainment. The aristocrats had some urgent, last minute details to complete. Vree was presently detained from her presence, which Tesa did not know if she liked.

Then there was Jessoin, down the curved stairs and across the dance floor. She was glad he was here, at last, where she could keep an eye on him. His struggles after Taris bothered her, much like discovering her dinner was served to her cold and raw. If she could send him back before Taris and bid him not to partake in the war, she would have done so already.

Tesa smiled his way, slowly rotating from one side to the other. He’d yet to see her dress. The body of the dress was rich, golden satin. The bodice was decorated with black sparkles. The skirt length was pleated gold satin cut in with black. She’d instructed her tailor that any shimmer needed to have a green tint. As a result, the gold and black gemstone bracelets, matching necklace and hair ornaments had the odd green gem inset.

“My lady Yarum,” a smooth voice said behind her. Tesa went to turn but Vree stepped beside her, resting his hands on the railing. He was an impeccably dressed individual: a classic black tailcoat, silver cufflinks, and a light blue kerchief tucked neatly into the front pocket. His black hair was plaited and tied with a satin ribbon, the same color as his kerchief. Taller than her by a few inches, since Tesa had forgone heels and instead worn soft, flat slippers. “We have more guests? That is good.”

“Your meeting faired well?” Tesa asked, inclining her head.

“Indeed. A final concern of Master Evard and Mistress Marie.” A waiter floated by with a single glass of wine on his tray, obviously meant only for Vree.

“Concerns with transportation?” Tesa pried.

“Fuel payments.” He sipped his wine, seeming unconcerned. This was the man’s usual face.

“I see. And you will pay how much?”

“Six percent. I trust this is satisfactory? You did say no more than eight.” Vree smiled without showing teeth. Bright ice-blue eyes twinkled with restrained pride.

“Indeed.” Tesa smiled, pleased her advice had been heeded. A few of the aristocrats made their way down the stairs and onto the dance floor.

Vree sipped his wine beside her. Tesa could feel his eyes on her as she watched the dancers. “The guests of the Sith Order have arrived?” Tesa nodded and sipped her wine. Vree shifted beside her, offering his arm in escort. “Will my beautiful nightingale introduce me to her acquaintances?”

Flashing a generous smile, Tesa slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. “Absolutely.” They walked down the stairs, and Tesa had a haunting notion the night was going to be long.

[lion]

Embarrassment didn't cover the level of indignity that Sarkh felt running through him. At no point in his life had be been so shamed, so incandescent with anger, than at the very moment at which he now stood. There had been no warning, no indication of what was to come, from his Sith overseers; they had brought the Trandoshan along in their words 'because he had earned the right to do so', but it seemed that the words had been worth less than the air they had expended to carry themselves to his ears.

Sarkh, a twenty-seven year old Trandoshan, family to one of the noble hunting clans of Dosha, a hunter of Jedi and among the Scorekeeper's favoured, stood; as bare as the day he had hatched, and whilst being scale-bare was hardly an issue to the reptilian male, it was what was happening that was the real issue.

No sooner had Sarkh arrived to the party, instructed to arrive early as he had been the to-be-famous treaty signing for Wayland to the Sith, had he been ushered aside along with several other figures. No guests had arrived, and rather than a gracious introduction, Sarkh had instead been subject to a quick herding in with several others; humans and aliens in kind, out of sight.

The air stank of sweat, oils, myriad foodstuffs being prepared, and paint; among a line of human men and women similarly undressed, being tended to and 'prepared', as the attendants had claimed. Hands and brushes did their imposing work upon Sarkh as they did each of the others; scales shone under the dim firelight as the light reflected upon the oiled surfaces. It was hard, extremely hard, not to be violent; a single twist of the wrist could have snapped the hands that dared touch him, but it was clear that this indignation was the will of his masters as much as it was the Waylanders to whom the Sith would be revelling with.

Politics bound his hands tighter than any ropes.

The oil had only been the first layer of insult, merely meant to bring out the 'shine' in the mammalian musculature, that had likewise been applied to him for much the same reason; light hit the slickened scales and 'stuck', giving the appearance of flexed muscle, drawing the eyes. Next had come the paints; his throat, chest, stomach and inner thighs had been painted a vibrant, almost glowing red; a strong countenance to the deep green of his body scales.

The overseeing attendant, rather backhandedly, had explained that it was to mimic the reptiles of Wayland; red was a sign of virility among the males and, therefore, had to be applied to him. Along with that, sky-blue insignia and tribal bands had been applied to his spine and his limbs; biceps, wrists, and ankles, as if to mimic the war paints of the stereotypical 'barbarian warrior'.

"Oh, now let's look at you...When the Sith mentioned a Trandoshan, we just had to make sure you came along. A pity there wasn't a Wookiee, we could have really had a fun evening..." The human spoke, the organiser for the night, the male's voice grating against Sarkh's earholes like the serrated teeth of a saw. The mirth, barely veiled behind the mock curiosity in his voice, was enough to be considered insult. "Oh yes, this will do perfectly. Clothe him."

Once again, hands gripped and grasped; and whilst it was difficult to maintain patience, Sarkh dug deep to stay his claws. Around his waist slipped the loincloth; a thin layer of pelt bound by a cord that covered from waist to knee, leaving his legs exposed. Around his upper biceps, leather cords were wrapped, along with a collar for the throat, lined with feathers and fur of the native beasts.

The costume was ridiculous, but it was a far second to the indignity that was to come.

"Now, you'll be serving the guests, both native and Sith, in their needs. However, at random, you'll be bound to a single guest, as it were; you'll be their 'guardian' warrior at their beck and call. If you've been instructed to harm another attendant, try to make it showy, not violent." The attendant lead instructed, once again his effeminate and sadistically amused voice bringing Sarkh's temper to a boil perhaps worse than the muggy Wayland air. "To other guests, you do not touch; you might be sent after someone, but you do not harm them; merely pretend. Any other commands, you fill to the letter. Understood?"

Sarkh made no move, no sound. The terms were horrific; befitting a slave more than a proud huntsmaster, but the question had far more rhetorical than genuine. Bitterness surged through the Trandoshan, his breaths deepening and quickening, but tempered carefully, the Trandoshan held both his fist and his tongue in place. No affront to his pride and dignity had been worse than this, but that same pride and dignity demanded he endure it; he was under order to.

"Ah, but it seems the guests are arriving. Come, take your places and, above all, remember your duties. Try to look as ferocious and as intimidating as you all can." The attendant's voice exclaimed, practically wailing in excitement; one final surge of auditory pain before the embarrassment, as Sarkh followed the procession to the main staging area; bare scales clapping gently against the floor with each step, bringing the only shred of cloth between him and bareness brushing against his freshly painted legs.

Nothing about this was comfortable.

[Dutch]

It was hot.

Not the arid gustful airs of Korriban, but the moist and sultry heat only found within rainforests. Glasses and partygoers alike glistened with sweat, none spared from the night’s blanketing torridity. Yet by the frolicking, gabbing and dancing privileged masses one wouldn’t think the temperature bothered them. Not when there were treats to taste, libations to drink and covert coition to enjoy. Deep drums and wooden winds played an exotic undertone to the aristocratic crowd’s conversing. The musicians, dressed as every other vassal in tribal paints and scanty clothes, seemed unphased by the gaggle of giggling heiress’ that had gathered around them.

The myriad wooden platforms and wide bridges connecting them were packed with Imperials, the Sith, and countless slaves, servants and initiates in between. Endless torches aflame lined the balconies and walkways, their flickering light casting dramatic, sensual shadows that gripped every dark nook. In the gloom Jessoin’s golden eyes glowed gently as they regarded his own heiress gaggle. A sweating glass of water cradled in one hand and the other raised eye level as lightning danced from fingertip to fingertip. The young aristocrats clapped and gaped at the small display, drunkenly distracted by the Zelosian’s trick.

From afar he could feel the gathered powers begin to scatter, their meeting adjourning for at least the moment Jess guessed. Moments later he could sense her, a tug of their bond within the Force turning his corrupted eyes right to meet Tesa’s briefly. The sight of her clutching the newest Aristocrat’s elbow sending a spike of indignant avarice to the Sith’s gut. His hand, once lightly sparking with flashes of lightning cracked as a bolt discharged to strike the nearest iron torch. Thought intentional, his admirers gasped and clapped louder at the display. Jessoin smiled an unpleasant smile, his eyes locked onto Vree as another bolt snapped out to shock a passing bird to death. The dying squawk heralded an even louder cheer, and the Zelosian bowed graciously before excusing himself.

Not before splashing the nearest servant with his drink, and ignoring their reaction as he began to weave through the crowd in Tesa’s direction.

[Jounin]

Vina made a mistake. She took advantage of an opportunity, only to find herself feeling naked and restrained. Darth Hervor was invited to this soiree of sorts, but had other matters to attend to. So it was up to one of her apprentices to take her place. Wanting to get off Korriban and trying to get a step ahead of her rival, Vina took the place of Darth Hervor.

She was sent to a private ship which was cramped, but comfortable, and there were no other passengers besides the pilot. A few minutes into the flight Vina already became impatient.

"Come on! can't you fly this any faster?"

"I'm sorry m'lord, this is the ship's current speed capacity." 

Vina slouches and grumbles. "Just be thankful that you're useful...or else you'd be dangling outside the ship by now."

The ship finally arrived in Wayland's orbit, and upon landing the pilot stopped Vina.

"I sorry m'lord, but you can't go out in that."

Vina looks at her armor, then gives a death glare to the pilot. "And why can't I?"

"Well you see m'lord this party is very high class, and armor is a less than desirable attire for a party like this."

Clenching her fists, she finally releases, knowing that she won't be able to get close to the higher ups if she looks like a brute. Removing her armor, she reveals her white, skin tight body suit, freshly cleaned of blood from her last torture session.

"I expect to see my armor here the minute I return." Vina demands as she leaves the ship

Now the Devaronian finds herself sweating while standing at the edges of the party, sipping wine and sizing up the other guests. 

 

[CaptainBonkers]

Havlen sighed. He had hoped to be wrong about the party but alas, all of his suspicions had thus far been correct. With its open fire cooking, costumed staff, torches and other savage paraphernalia decorating the venue it was all so tacky and so pointlessly extravagant. So horribly, and Havlen hated himself for having to resort to using the term in a derogatory manner, New Money. Havlen had attended student parties with more class than this soiree back in his Academy days. It all just went to show that ability to exploit an opportunity did not necessarily go hand in hand with good taste. The only truly good thing Havlen could say about the party was that at least it wasn’t pedestrian; undeniably and hopelessly garish but still far from droll and forgettable.

If the fickle force of nature that was Imperial Fashion had not, in its questionable wisdom, dictated that this event was the event for the foreseeable future, Havlen probably would not have bothered to make the trip here. However, a quirk of fashion had decided this to be the social event of the month and thus all members of Imperial elite of any note had to make an appearance or become the subject of a storm of rumors. For good and bad Havlen belonged to that select group and was thus was forced to take part in this event, as annoying as it was to leave his work for the few days this whole affair took. Events like these were where the Imperial politics were played and dictated and shunning them was a quick way to slip into irrelevancy. However, that didn't mean Havlen had to enjoy himself.

Not that anyone there could have told he wasn't having fun. Well, anyone besides Lena that was. His wife was just about the only one there who knew him well enough to accurately read him. To the rest of the guests around him Havlen appeared to be at least somewhat enjoying himself albeit in a quiet, dignified manner. He wasn't about to wallow in the rampant hedonism that seemed to have engulfed most of the other guests. Havlen respected himself far too much for such distasteful behavior.

As Havlen regarded the people around him, he felt a hand sliding around his arm and turned to see Lena standing next to him. She had returned from getting a drink. In her black evening gown she looked radiant but then again Havlen was of the opinion that Lena could have worn shapeless burlap sack to an event like this and still outshine every lady present. He himself was dressed in a variant of his dress uniform, designed for high temperatures and humidity levels, which meant lighter material, slightly looser collar and cuffs, dress shoes instead of boots and a lighter color.

“You know Hav, you could actually try having fun for once, instead of just pretending. You might find it relaxing.” she chided him gently. Havlen gave her one of his few uncalculated smiles.

“You know events like these aren’t meant for men like me to enjoy. This is all just an extension of work for me.”

Lena chuckled at his reply. “Says the man who loves his work.”

Havlen had to admit, she had him there though perhaps ‘love’ was a touch misleading of an adjective to describe his feelings towards his duties. ‘Devoted’ might have been a better fit but Havlen didn’t feel the need to correct his wife and just continued smiling for a while.

“Seen any familiar faces yet?” he inquired.

“Many actually but only few I was actually glad to see. The Orns are here and I think I saw Moff Lorik somewhere near the entrance. Oh, and Minister Gevrin’s here too. I talked with him for a bit while waiting for the waiter to bring more drinks.”

Havlen nodded. Of course he had known all of that before hand: he’d read the guest list long before the party and the files on every person of interest. One didn’t arrive into events like these without arming themselves. Or at least anyone with any intention of winning in the game of politics came armed.

“And of course Papa is here, getting inebriated with some of his old army acquaintances.” she added a hint of bitterness in her voice. Lena wasn’t too keen on the way her father behaved at parties. Grand Moff Valkan was a powerful man but one with many quirks of character that sometimes strained his relations with his daughter. Excessive social drinking was one of them. Thank goodness the man could hold his liquor, so it was more of a slight embarrassment than source for scandalous material.

“Then I’d better get to him right away. I was hoping to exchange few words with him before he reaches the point they start singing regimental songs.”

Lena sighed. “Fine, he’s near those enormous roasts, you know where most of the booze is. I’ll go mingle. If you can, try to get him to take it slow. I’d hate to see him to repeat the episode from last year’s Independence Day.”

Havlen nodded and gave Lena quick peck on the cheek. “I’ll see what I can do but you know how he is at parties.”

“Unfortunately. See you later then.”

And so Havlen headed out to see his father-in-law before the alcohol got the better of him.

[Poludnica]

((Ooops, sorry guys. ))

Finally. Her life was slowly regaining the previous pace. After few months Danica had rejoined the world of politics and business, discovering it was easier than she initially believed. Slowly, her mansion grew into a prison and Danica eagerly left it, leaving the children in a good care. It would be Danica’s first public appearance in nearly half a year, but she didn’t expect many people to be stirred by it. Her corporation had no part in the war, aside from making generous donations to Sith Order, and especially now Danica wanted to exist at the edges of the spotlight. Her father remained silent for months now, too busy with on going political issues than family, which suited Danica. The fear of him slowly subsided, but didn’t fade completely. Nieraan was with her - a strong, calming presence. The recent events matured him as well, albeit the Firrerreo was far from losing his boyish charm.

Pushing idle musings aside, the Coruscanti woman focusing on the present: the dancing torches, thick and humid air. The fancy guests and mellifluous music. Oh, how she had missed such gatherings. The last few months had been loud and straining, leaving Danica tired and burned out. It was about to change - her children needed insurance, a powerful legacy so they wouldn’t become an easy target for the old, Empire bloodlines. Their mother was from Coruscanti aristocracy, father was a non-human that grew on the streets - neither of them held important place among the local nobility. To secure her children future away from Cassius, Danica needed even more friends. And what was the better place to make powerful friends than a fancy party?

As usually, Danica spent ridiculous amount of time on preparations. She had been on the blasted waiting list for three months, three months, before Danica had finally been called in for an appointment at the boutique of the very fashionable, very in-demand, Twi’lek haute couture designer, Nyara Veyria. The woman’s ideas were ground-breaking - for an alien - simply brilliant; her recent collection was to die for, so when Danica had finally received that coveted invitation to come in for her fitting, she was elated. It also could not have happened at a better time; the way the genius designer had fussed over that woman’s impeccable physique reeked of lie, but it certainly helped cheer Danica. Her body had changed, leaving additional few pounds which always turned a maiden into a mother. The resulting dress was, of course, breath-taking; crimson and black dress, it retained alluring tastefulness Danica liked so much about her clothes. Still, getting a new outfit had nothing on putting Nieraan into something elegant and overpriced. The Sith Lord’s inner street rat refused any pretentious garments. Getting his hair under control was already a difficult battle to win.

After feisty argument they reached a compromise and appeared fashionably late. The place was already filled with guests. Among them Danica had recognised very prominent figures, next to which her own power and influence remained a mere flicker. Ancient human bloodlines, important political figures and ….the Sith Order. Danica immediately recognised Jessoin - it was difficult not to notice him, giving the spectacle he created around himself. ”I swear, he is worse attention craving diva than I have ever been.” She sighed, leaning on Nieraan’s shoulder. Jessoin meant Tesa, but Danica couldn’t find the young Sith. Too distracted by other familiar faces. ”Let’s mingle.” The woman demanded. ”Drinks first. I can’t be sober for this.” She added quickly.

[Marcie's ℳℰℳℰS]

    From the moment she had heard about this ball she had her mind set on it. It was quite a rare occasion that a Sith of her rank in the empire would even be allowed to attend such matters. Though she never knew how she managed to convince Syrin to let her attend she had just figured it was something that Syrin knew she was looking forward to... Though then again she had bought a brand new dress and such. So there was no hiding her interests in such activities.


    She also somehow managed to convince the most anti-everything person she knew to attend this as her partner. Murae sat at a table alone the brand new dress she had bought for the ball. While the bottom half of the dress didn't quite fit the hot environment, the top half of her dress made up with that. The dress strapless and quite a bit of open space in the back she had the breathing room she needed for the environment. Another thing she had attempted to make work was styling her bangs to cover up her scar on the right side of her face. Scars had no place on occasions such as these so she did her best. Not all was covered but most was. It was good enough not to ruin the look but also work with the style of the outfit she was going for. 


     Across from her at the table she sat at was a delicately made wine glass that she sipped of. Though she did find the outfits of the attendants to be quite ridiculous though given the setting of the ball she figured it was all apart of the general feel they were trying to give. 


    All the way on another platform in the area she had finally spotted her partner for the ball. Zexva was standing on the other platform across from her in the tuxedo she made him wear though he hated it. She walked up to him swaying her hips as she approached him and wrapped her hand around his arm with her glass in the other hand saying, "I know you want to get out of that 'monkey suit' and back into your robes but deal with it for now. Enjoy the environment. Trust me these balls can be quite entertaining."

[Rugs]

Nieraan hated parties.

The events themselves weren’t to blame for his ire — not entirely. A bit of snarky observations while people watching and a lot of booze could make for a fun enough time. But the required pomp, the demand that he, at least for a night, put on the façade of being something he was most definitely not made him feel more a plaything put on display than a Sith Lord.

Left to his own devices, the Firrerreo would’ve been a sector away, but Danica wasn’t having any of it. Bad enough that his lover forced him to go, but she demanded that he make himself “presentable” for the “high class” who would be “paying attention to them.”

Nieraan had resisted this of course, and the phrase “street urchin” had been thrown about no less than five times during the ensuing argument. So too had “snooty” and “pretentious” a few times, but in the end they’d compromised. Nieraan’s suit was less formal than the tuxedo he’d worn to the ball on Ziost, but still cultured enough to suit Danica’s taste. Its design for high temperatures — thanks in large part to light materials — meant he wasn’t particularly bothered by the heat. That was good too — where Korriban’s desert seemed to try with all its might to bake you, the air here on Wayland was just thick and suffocating with humidity.

Still, while there were about a hundred other places Nieraan would rather be, he was inescapably here and figured he might as well make the best of it.

His attention turned first to the scores of people, aristocrats and servants alike, as they arrived to the soft hum of music from the orchestra. Some aristocrats he recognized; many he did not. Several of his fellows from the Sith order flitted in and out of the crowd, including his student, who he assumed was off his Zeltron plaything somewhere.

He saw a flash of lightning arc from none other than Jessoin to a squaking puff of feathers. Danica voiced what sounded like annoyance. Nieraan quietly giggled. “I thought it was funny,” he offered sheepishly, “but yes, drinks.”

They moved deeper into the fray. Nieraan pointedly tried to avoid engaging any aristocrats, but one, a moderately-tall blonde man with sharp, hazel eyes, accosted them before he could steer Danica away.

“Ah, Lord Aurelius!” Havyn Godwin exclaimed with false warmth. “And Miss Liviana! Stunning as always. It is a pleasure to see you both here.” The lordling was either too bold or too stupid to notice Nieraan’s slight bristling. “Though I must say, Lord Aurelius, I hadn’t expected to see you here. I’d gotten the uh… impression, let’s say, that you don’t fancy these events?”

A subtle lift in his town and gently raised brow made Havyn’s question an innocent seemthing thing. Nieraan smiled falsely back at the slightly-pudgy aristocrat.

“Well I’m here, Havyn, and I appreciate your concern,” he said, voice overly-sweet. “Though I have to say, I expected your father to be here. No matter, though. Glad to see you! Now if you excuse us, we were on our way to see other company.”

He moved them along, leaving a stammering Havyn behind. Havyn’s father wasn’t in attendance of course, because he was dead. Nieraan knew this because he’d been the one assigned to kill him.

“I’m going to strangle that jackass by the end of the night,” he grumbled under his breath.

[Squee]

((I am bad bad. Have post post. Finally.))

“Where did you get the scars?”

“Pardon me?” Tesa filed the question as utterly rude. She had not openly displayed her scars from Taris to have them open for scrutiny. Would this man question the scars of his fellow male-kind? Probably not.

“Your scars. I assume they are from your battles.”

“They are. Taris.”

“I am sorry you had to suffer them.”

What are you on to? “That,” Tesa changed the subject. “Over there, is Miss Vina Ikar.” Tesa tilted her head upward near his shoulder, so Vree could hear her more clearly. “The Devaronian partaking little effort in the festivities. I am unsure of the reason behind her visit, unless we do not see her master.”

Vree sipped his wine and briefly glanced through the corner of his eye. His disappointment slithered through her as his mind flicked through words of judgement. “And who would that be?”

“The illustrious Darth Hervor.” There was a small start in his arm, and the sense of dissatisfaction melted away. Tesa felt a tiny, unsuppressed tick in the corner of her mouth. Darth Hervor was a treacherous, horrible woman, and her monstrous reputation was conjured upon the very fabrication of her name. “If we are to experience only Ikar tonight, I would say we are better for it. Keep walking; she’s yet to be of import. Instead I’ll introduce you to Jessoin Zarander.”

Tesa gently tugged his arm to change Vree’s course of direction. He followed her a few steps, before pulling short, his head turned in another direction, peering over the heads of several guests. “Mistress Yarum, would that be Danica Liviana?”

Tesa looked where Vree gestured with his wineglass, nearly losing it when a guest walked briskly past. She nodded then straightened her posture. Liviana was a suitable detour from meeting Jessoin. But… “Have you met?”

“Mmph.” Vree made a sound, which he covered by sipping his wine. “Her father.”

Liar. The accusation rang clear within the Force. Though he probably knew of Cassius Liviana, like Tesa knew of him. He was a CEO of a prosperous company and it was under impression, putting mildly, that Danica was not particularly fond of her father. Tesa had yet to have any dealings with the man in her Republic holdings. “Ah. Well, I know Liviana. I’ll introduce you.”

“Yes, and then we should find Moff Havlen Torrik. Or, rather, we will find his wonderful wife or Grand Moff Valkan. I suggest we try to find his wife.”

Tesa cast a glance toward where she’d last seen Jessoin. Their presences were so attuned that her eyes jumped right to where he was in the room. His attention was being detained by a decorated, serving Trandoshan. A seething Trandoshan. She could feel the lizard’s suppressed anger battered delicately against Jessoin’s demanding aura. His scales almost rattled with indignity.

Tesa touched Jessoin’s mind. Isn’t the reptile one of ours?

“Lady Liviana!” Tesa was able to greet the woman without feint. She actually liked the young businesswoman. There needed to be more shrewd women in the galaxy. “Please, this is Octavius Vree, our host.”

Vree gently extended his arm and Tesa’s hand slipped from his elbow. “A pleasure!” He bowed slightly as he kissed Danica’s knuckles. His attention rested on Nieraan as he straightened up, awaiting Tesa’s introduction.

“Accompanying her is Lord Aurelius, or Nieraan Onin.” Tesa’s mouth quirked at Nieraan as Vree bowed deeply and greeted him as “Lord”. He looked sour in his suit. No doubt, the dress clothing was not his choice. Tesa tilted her head at Nieraan, though she looked at Danica, and the quirk in her lip grew a bit wider as she nodded her approval. “That gown looks stunning on you, Danica. And I hope the babes are well.”

“Are you a new mother? Congratulations!” Vree’s tone was full with wholeheartedness. “And you are the same Lady Liviana who began a business not too long ago?”

[lion]

There was indignity, and then there was disrespect.

A disciplined life had hardened Sarkh to the former, his years as a whelp hatch-ling taking beating after beating in order to strengthen himself to the reality of a hunter's lifestyle having served as something of an armour around his pride; forged as it was through grit and effort to withstand the barbs of disgrace and pain.

Indignity, embarrassment, it was akin to a surface wound; one that wasn't to be exactly tolerated but by the same token, one that wasn't allowed to cut too deeply. Patience would tend to the pride upon which the wound had been placed, the knowledge that it was only lesser beings that sought to deal out such petty blows.

Disrespect, on the other hand, as the sharp chill of the cool water spattered across his chest, was far from what Sarkh could have simply let go. Laughter from some of the guests echoed, the sheer and utter disinterest in any repercussion from the higher ranked Sith who had so casually discarded the fluid upon him only fuelled the fire that perhaps a more patient Trandoshan might have sought to quell. Any other servant, in fact, may have simply blinked and bore the shame, but this? The costume was indignity enough; but to be openly affronted in front of these lesser men and women? By someone expected, in Sarkh's eyes, to conduct themselves with honour and respect as a leader among the Sith?

Indignity quickly, quickly turned to a seething fury.

Without shame, without so much as a single second of hesitation, Sarkh abandoned the platter that had been given to him, shoving it idly upon the chest of another unfortunately-attired attendant as he barged through. Six and a half feet of Trandoshan moved quickly; the young Sith's frame crossed the distance between he and the arrogant Zelosian with little effort from the barely covered legs save the rippling flex and relax pattern of his quadriceps taking the load in stride.

Without hesitation, without so much as an angry word, the reptile reached forth, his claws grasping the left shoulder of the far smaller Zelosian, caught his intended target and tugged backward hard, seeking to spin the smaller man around entirely where he stood before throwing a rapid right hook punch, squarely for the plant-man's jaw.

Disrespect was not to be tolerated, after all; from neither superior nor inferior.

[Poludnica]

By now Danica tried to ignore Nieraan’s sour mood when it came to events like this. She had warned him that becoming someone with ‘lord’ in front of the name consisted of more than epic battles, stealthy killings and beating up students. It was taxing to constantly make sure he wouldn’t embarrass himself in fine company. Danica gave him a condescending look when Nieraan approved of Jessoin’s behaviour. They were two immature boys at times. ”Try to behave like a normal Firrerreo being for once.” She complained, of course her advice fell on deaf ears when one of the aristocrats strutted over. He was a round faced, chubby blonde and was an epitome of what Nieraan loathed in his kind - unnerving superiority conveyed with false smiles . Danica could feel him tensing and just in case delicately nudged Nieraan in the ankle. ”Lord Godwin.” The woman bowed delicately, in a manner that was polite but not obsequious. Already picking up on the game the man was playing.

Before she could utter another word, Nieraan cut in. His boorish snark put faint blush on Danica’s cheeks. The woman was about to apologise for her uncouth partner when Nieraan pulled them away from Godwin. She cursed, trying to keep it quiet, but anger was clearly visible on her features. “You could have been more delicate about it.” Danica snipped. Godwin was an ass, he looked down on those like Nieraan as humans in the Imperium were essentially purists. ”Just let me insult people next time.” She wanted to get drunk swiftly enough to ignore Nieraan’s lack of manners. ”You aren’t strangling anyone tonight, you will smile and wave, and have fun.” She remarked, furious Nieraan dismissed how important such events were. Being a Sith Lord meant nothing when it came to upper echelon business. Danica had contracts with some of those people, strived to achieve position many in the Imperium where born into.

Thankfully Tesa was there to save the day. Danica liked the young woman, she had class and taste many in the Order lacked. It was someone to drink fancy wine with and talk through recent interesting gossips. ”Tesa, it’s so good to see you.” Danica smiled radiantly to both, the host and the Sith woman. She let him kiss her knuckles in an old-fashion greeting. A coy chuckle escaped her, as expected from the lady. ”Ah, thank you.” The Coruscanti woman accepted the compliment with a bow. ”Children are well…and loud.” Danica added with a studious sigh and returned Vree’s smile. ”Yes, but it seems like I’ve been here forever.” She continued before looking around the place pointedly. ”That is a wonderful party, you are a man of exquisite taste.” All smiles and games. In the corner of her eye she observed Nieraan, who probably thought that was how purgatory must look like.

The polite, shallow exchange was disrupted by a surprising turn of events. Danica’s eyes moved to lock on Jessoin and Trandoshan. The lizard servant looked enraged. She immediately got a whiff of troubles gathering over the party. The woman’s eyes widened when the Trandoshan put his large, clawed hand on Jessoin’s shoulder.