To Victory, Everlasting

[Rugs]

“Are you ready, sir?”

D-1NO shuffled about anxiously. Alder, busy adjusting his blue tie in the mirror, resisted the urge to roll his eyes. No doubt the droid would be sweating bullets if he wasn’t made of metal.

“You know this isn’t my first rodeo, right?” The Supreme Chancellor looked at the droid. “I’ve been coming to these since I joined the Senate.

“Yes, of course, sir, I remember well — and the many years your mother attended during her tenure as an Associate Representative.” D-1NO’s servos stopped whirring as the droid paused, granting a moment of blessed silence. “But, sir, this is one of the highest-profile non-political events of the year. As I am programmed to serve you it is only natural to feel some concern that you are as adequately prepared as possible.”

“I appreciate it, D1, I really do.” Now Alder was putting on his overcoat — a knee length, smoke-grey piece from one of Alderaan’s premier tailors. “But there’s one thing you’re wrong about.”

Alder turned to leave, stopping near the protocol droid. He smiled and put a hand on D-1NO’s polished silver surface. “I’m the Chancellor. Everything I do is political. And if you think the point of this party isn’t politicking, well...” he laughed, pulling a hat from a rack near the door.

“Let’s just say there are times I envy you and your programming.” The Chancellor’s Office doors spread wide as Alder stepped outside. “I’ll be back,” he called to the droid. “Don’t set anything on fire while I’m out.”

---

The Republic’s Gala, as it had come to be called in recent years, was everything it was billed to be. Year after year, it impressed, and this event was no different.

This year, the Gala was hosted in a grand venue on the edge of the Senate District. The Senate Building itself loomed off in the distance, silhouetted against the evening sky as Alder, flanked by members of the Senate Guard in their plumed helmets entered the venue's entrance hall.

“Ah, Chancellor Vrieska!” Alder knew the voice before the man with jet black hair came into view. The guard stopped him as he neared until Alder motioned for them to let him pass.

“Raithsaphi,” he said warmly, extending his hand for the gala’s host. “It’s good to see you. “First year back we’re back here since the battle, if I recall?”

“Ah, yes, it is,” Raithsaphi said. He was a slender man, with midnight-black hair that was slicked back for the evening. His mustache was neatly cut, his narrow beard trimmed to a fine point. Raithsaphi’s eyes, though, were ice blue, and piercing like few Alder had ever seen before. “Horrible bit of luck that, but what can you do when a Sith cruiser crashes on you from orbit? But we have rebuilt, with astonishing speed,” he said, motioning grandly at the wide corridor that stretched before them. Raithsaphi winked. “As has the Republic. ”

“As has the Republic,” Alder echoed, motioning for Raithasaphi to follow him. The entrance hall was tall and wide, with black floor shined to a mirror’s polish. A wall of windows, from floor to ceiling, lined its front-facing side. Veins of gold snaked through the black marble columns that rose from the floor to the ceiling.

Alder spotted high-ranking military officers, diplomats and even a Jedi here and there as they walked to the main hall. Security was tight. Beyond the pair of guards with him at all times, more of the Senate Guard was spread throughout the building, mixed in with some of the Coruscant Security Force’s finest, which had, as always, set up a perimeter that extended around the venue itself.

“Now the gala itself is already underway, as you know,” Raithsaphi said. That was tradition — the Chancellor always arrived after the event started, delivered some remarks, and joined in the night’s affairs. “For this grand re-opening, we’ve spared no expense. The Republic’s finest food and drink, from Eshan to Bakura or Ryloth — we’ve got it all.”

“Good to know,” Alder said, pausing again to adjust his coat before the great hall doors. Raithsaphi bowed and backed away as the main hall doors slid open. “Let’s get in there and see for ourselves.”

[Muffinzky]

Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh. Oh. My. GOD.
Rahebis’ breath was shallow and with every step she took, her heart fastened its beat. Soon it had reached the speed of galloping horses, threatening to jump out of her throat. Still, her bare legs moved - Slowly, but steadfast. The soft, pearly fabric caressed her thighs with every step. And the copper coloured ankle bracelets rattled slightly, when her bare feet touched the ground.

Life is short!
She had managed to make it this far.
There is no way I’m going to stop now!

The closer she came to the destination of the gala, the more she could feel the presence of many growing. Some Force sensitive, some not. It started buzzing in her head and numbed her chest a bit. That created its own form of static and made a mantra appear in the Zelosian’s orange-haired head.
I hate it. I hate it. I hate it

Yet at the same time… The emotions. They were pristine and positive, almost like a light shining for her inner eye.
Happiness. Excitement. Pride.
But I looooooooove it.

It gave the Padawan a sense of being high. Hey pupils dilated, and her plump lips curled up in a big smile. Numbing her own head sort of helped with the whole situation. And this static was delicious.

As Rahebi approached the marvellous building, she recognized one of the faces outside as someone from the High Council.
It DOES pay of with the random knowledge from the Archives, she thought to herself.

But how. How was she going to pass without getting noticed? She tried to lower her presence in the Force as well as her physical appearance by crouching a bit as she walked. When he looked away, she did a quick dive roll till she reached the statue of someone she thought looked like the Supreme Chancellor. But 15 years younger.
Is someone getting insecure about their wrinkles?

Posing exactly like the statue, behind it: with a serious face and arms crossed, she blended into the background, waited a bit till the council member looked away again, then ran for it.

It wasn’t that Rahebi had done anything wrong. Or that the Council knew her (at least if they did, she would feel flattered). But a Padawan sneaking around alone in the Senate District. With no Master. That could probably seem quite suspect.

And in that outfit:
A little black dress with slight shine that exposed her shoulders and some soft skin of her chest, hugging close to her body, embracing her shape. Simple. -Yet stylish! If she was to say so herself. And she was actually proud that she had managed to get it in time. For many weeks, carefully divided between each month, she had meditated intensively in the sun to make up for what humans would use as sustenance, but Zelosians didn’t need the same way. Her record so far was 5 days on bubble-gum, water and sun before she would start to feel hungry. That way Rahebi could spend the few Credits the Jedi got for essentials – On some lesser essential things.

Someone boring would say: But Rahebiiii! You could wear your Jedi robes. But you have to remember not getting attached to material poss-

But but but - NAAAAAH!
For as long as I live. As long as there is still goodness in this world, the water is blue, and the sun shines brightly on the mighty, beautiful space that is the Republic -(or as long as there are any credits left in my pocket),
I, Rahebi Terai, former apprentice of Ishtar Lazuli solemnly swear:
Biaartch, there is no way in hell that I will meet up at the Republic Gala and look like the offspring of an unwanted marriage between a tent and a floor mop!

So many important people would be there. So many she had only read about, but first now had the opportunity to see in reality. Her whole entrance to this day was something she had planned for so long.
To Rahebi – Getting this dress. Was a life or death situation!
FOR FASHION!

Aaaand from a technical point of view, it’s not mine as long as I get it through a hire-purchase system and still owe them Credits. No harm done. No rules broken. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.
…
Right?
…
No rules broken, me said!

Still, the young woman wouldn’t risk the confrontation and/or scolding of someone as high up as the Council. Not if she could help it. And thus - with the first obstacle cleared, the angels were singing: She could see the entrance to the building!

She brushed her dress, adjusted her curly hair and walked proud through the door. Only to get stopped by a hand that pushed against her shoulders and hindered her from entering the hall. A tall, wide guard looked at her with a raised brow.
“And who are you, girl?”

“Dude, I’m a Jedi! Let me in” Rahebi exclaimed in protest.
There was no reaction. The guard looked down her body in silence, and she followed his gaze. No, no he was right. She didn’t look like a Jedi. And at the same time, she didn’t look elegant enough to be a politician or someone of importance. She wasn’t wearing any shoes, for fucks sake!

“Mister. Please let me in mister, pwetty pwease? It’s so cooold out here”. The young Zelosian embraced herself as if to illustrate and sent the guard her most adorable puppy eyes. To no avail. She better practice that later.

“Okay, okay. Dude, listen. My Master is meeting me here soon, so I’m not unattended”.
-“Who?” the guard stormed.
Rahebis’ green eyes wandered around aimlessly in a desperate attempt to come up with something fast. On some buildings far away, she could see erosion in the walls of durasteel.
“Uhmmm- Rustyyy”
She smacked her lips around the mint gum and noticed a park area in the back.
“Rusty Gumtree”.

The guard didn’t budge.

Pffffffffffft – pop-.
Rahebi was blowing a bubble of gum, munched it back in her mouth and sent the guard a death stare.

“Not cool dude, not cool”.
He was really getting on her nerves. The otherwise hopeful green eyes narrowed, and she took a step back. Why would he do such a thing? She hadn’t done anything wrong.
Normally Rahebi would only do this in absolute emergencies. But desperate time took desperate measures! And she KNEW that measurement.
-You leave me no choice.

Her eyes locked with those of the guard. Waving her fingers discretely as if to reach out for him, she slowly penetrated his mind with the Force. Her voice was as quiet as possible, in order not to attract any unwanted attention.

“You WILL let me in” she hissed.
-“Iiii… Will let her in?”

“You will let me in and you will tell your friends to let me pass”.
The guard finally stepped aside, looked over his shoulder and gave signal to the other guards.

Rahebi then walked past him and proceeded with one last sentence before she let go with her invisible grip in the guard.
“You will tell no one about this, or that you have seen me”.
Rahebi. Had entered. The building.

The main hall was full of music. People were already there. The static was intense. Confusing. Where should she go? How should she step? Who should she talk too? She didn’t know. There were so many things to see. Blowing a lime green bubble of gum until it burst, a strong scent of mint immediately surrounded her. She chewed a few times, pinched the gum together to a ball with her fingers and pressed it behind her ear. It wasn’t suited for here.
An important-looking lady in a long royal blue dress was enjoying her welcome drink and mingled with a group of equally important-looking politicians. What the celebrities did had to be what was expected, right? So, with a little pull of her finger, Rahebi used the Force to draw a welcome drink to her palm. She parked herself up against the wall as a start as she scanned the room. That was probably good for now. When her lips brushed against the glass and the first drops of clear fluid touched her tongue, she cringed immediately. Her mouth pressed together to a straight line.

How can anyone drink this!? So sour! What is this even?

[Fromikeable]

"High society party-goers are most like human appendices, Dr. Bellamy." Speaking at a whisper as they approached their venue for the evening, the illustrious Dreamspun Hoard, Rahse failed to suppress a smile. Using his free hand, he adjusted his silver bow tie, correcting his equally silver shirt collar. As they stopped before the entrance to the building atop the red carpet, Rahse's hand continued its journey into his black velvet tuxedo, red fingers plucking out an embroidered invitation. Handing it forward to one of the suit-clad officials manning the door, it was received with a nod and returned.

Pocketing it anew, Rahse offered an elbow to his plus-one, resuming his smirk. "They somehow succeed in being both indispensable and yet entirely purposeless. Titans of anatomical industry linked to every bowel and brain cell, yet the only ones that use their clout to any effect threaten to doom the entire social body." Exiting the night into the chandelier'd hall, the duo of doctors ascended a marvelous marble staircase as their fellows passed and fell behind. Some chatted on the steps themselves, failing to make it to the party proper before conversations were struck. Others marched diligently up and down, determined to exit or enter. Some other few seemed most like Rahse and Cris, taking their time.

"Collecting so much of the group in one place tends to beg questions of nature, so do be careful. No one here will be stabbing at you, but rest assured, wars of words are being fought in every corner." As they reached the top of the stairs, two servants in white suits lined with black buttons held the large doors there open, allowing people passage as they came and went. Stopping for a moment a dozen steps below them, Rahse seemed to check himself one last time, his finer posture and airs giving way to genuine tactical checks. He made last-minute adjustments to his cuffs, his belt, his hair, even the small amounts of make-up he'd donned to hide blemishes and giving his skin an extra bit of red radiance.

If the gala was a warzone of rhetoric, then these were all his weapons.

Satisfied with himself, they took the final few steps. The party they rose into operated at a loud din of mixed voices, clinking glasses, laughter, terse conversation, and swirling accents. Every race in the galaxy, or at the very least the Republic, seemed to be on exhibition, each dressed according to their culture's highest standards. Despite the diversity, Galactic Basic rang throughout the room like a bell, each dialect different, but all trying to achieve that Coruscanti golden standard that the Senate operated at each and every day.

"Everyone here knows that they have the power to make history. Remember that when considering any of their motivations and you should be fine."

[Stephen]

Veston's esthetician glanced him over and straightened his tie. She had opted for blue pinstripes with a pink collared shirt underneath which she had insisted was salmon coloured, despite Veston's insistence that Salmon was silver and black speckled. He fiddled with his golden cuff links offhandedly as she artfully curled his bangs. He struggled to hold himself still in his stretch speeder, trying desperately to treat this seriously. Testing confirmed that she gave him a slight edge in negotiations, something in the neck of a one and one third percent increased rate of return in face to face meetings over the course of 3 years, but damn if it didn't feel stupid.

Veston strode the stone stairs quickly, his hand holding his suitcoat closed across his chest in the heavy wind. He handed his coded passcard to the pair of guards at the door and walked into the austere building. The air inside with charged with nervous energy and Veston slithered in and just drank in the noise. It was a big enough scene that just about everyone you'd meet was everyone, or everyone's attache, so you'd hardly waste your time talking to anyone, in a business sense. He was a snake in a room with snakes, each person looking to bite, each person afraid to get bitten.

Veston hadn't spotted the guest of honor yet, but he wasn't sure he'd recognize him if he did. He didn't have a strong patriotic streak in him, and the holoseal of his likeness on his credstick didn't much look like anyone. He drifted quietly into a conversation around the idea the war in the outer rim being a good investment opportunity, like a devouring swarm would somehow keep the trade lanes open. It was fucking stupid, and indicative of an attitude that forms from living so far from conflict your entire life. Veston sipped his wine and winced that the awfulness it all. He spent a moment making sure to remember those involved in case he had any money with their ventures and walked on. Struck out on the first swing but surely someone would have something worth hearing here.

[CaptainBonkers]

The Dreamspun Hoard was not an entirely unfamiliar venue to Eudon. He had attended a fete or two as well as a number of soirees in here back when father had served as the Senator of Fondor. However that had been long ago and it seemed that the place had gone through a number of ‘forced renovations’ since then. As lamentable it had been to hear that such an illustrious establishment had taken the brunt of a Sith cruiser crashing in flames onto the planet’s surface, Eudon could not stop himself from thinking that if it was what it had taken to get the place in its current state of splendour, then it had been quite worth it. The new and improved Hoard was definitely a sight to be seen, and as hard it might have been to believe considering the Hoard’s reputation, a definite improvement over the old decor and design.

However, as magnificent the venue of the event or how opulent the setting was, Eudon wasn’t too exited over taking part in the festivities. He was here merely because father had requested him to do so. The Republic had been gracious enough to extend an invitation to the Tapani Royal family, likely hoping Eudon’s father to make an appearance. If that had been their plan they had underestimated his father’s dedication towards neutrality. Him making the trip to Coruscant to cavort with some of his old buddies from his senator days and provide the Republic media with plenty of photo-ops of him with the Republic leadership would, however, have sent an entirely wrong message to the rest Galaxy. Thus he had elected to send someone else to the event in his place with polite apologies over not being able to make it himself. Unfortunately sending anyone but his heir (with the possible exception of Eudon’s mother) in his stead would have been a definite snub towards the Republic. Hence, here he was. But slightly reluctant as he might have been to make an appearance at the Grand Gala, Eudon was determined to do it well. After all, rubbing elbows with the movers and shakers of the Galaxy was more or less his job description at the moment, seeing how there wasn’t a war going on.

Eudon and his retinue definitely garnered some attention from the rest of the guests. He stood out easily from many of the other guests in their civilian suits and dresses, especially against the dark suits of the four undercover Mercosa agents making up his security detail. The gleaming white High Admiral’s dress uniform he wore stood out of the darker tones surrounding him in bright contrast. Combined with the gold thread of the thick stripes ringing his cuffs and the epaulets on his shoulders, carefully selected collection of medals gleaming on his chest and the bull polished riding boots on his feet he was almost literally a radiant sight under the right lighting.

His plan for the evening was simple; chat with some senators hailing from systems and sectors bordering Tapani space, butter them up for trade negotiations and whatnot with a friendly word or two but also discreetly remind that the fourth largest standing navy in the Galaxy was parked just across the border from them. And should their whinging calls for embargo and other “punitive” measures against the Tapani not cease that Navy might be liable to allying with the Empire once the Great War got around to heating up again.

Once that was over and done with, Eudon would find the Supreme Chancellor, relay his father’s apologies for not being able to make it there in person, compliment the man for throwing a fine party, exchange few more formal pleasantries and then bid him good evening. Then it was off to find if any of his old academy buddies had made it far enough in life to get receive an invitation and spend the evening catching up with them. If that did not pan out, Eudon could always just find some fellow royals and spend the evening exchanging backhanded compliments while getting drunk on Alderaanian red. Not exactly an evening out at the officers’ club but certainly better than just beating an early retreat and spending the night holed up at the Corovarian.

[Neology]

[googlefont="News Cycle"]

dress ”To hear you talk, Dr. Hyul, it sounds like I’ve never been to a party in my life.” Doctor Cristine Bellamy drifted along on the professor’s arm. Despite her brave words, she’d been trying since their arrival not to look too over-award by the venue and guests. Results were somewhat mixed – minor holonet celebrities she could ignore, but she found herself staring after a young woman in a perilously short dress and no shoes. Shaking her head, Cris set her confusion aside and smiled wryly at Rahse. This extended simile of his felt rather unfair; she was the medical doctor here, master of appendices and all else anatomical. Still, she could forgive him. One would have to stretch to tie Dr. Hyul’s specialty to this splendid place, to these people. Stretch – or wait a couple thousand years. Xenoarchaeology was less conversational, truly. ”I’ll take your advice to heart, since I know you mean it kindly.” The atmosphere was a familiar one, reminding her of the fundraising circuit with her ex-husband. Of course, Erran Foster had never had access to quite so august company … But then, neither would she tonight unless Dr. Hyul had connections seriously above his station. Pleasantries and patriotism were the sweet top notes that she was entirely content to dwell on, willfully blind to the lumbering movement of serious money and equally serious security. Stars, she hoped Dr. Foster wasn’t here. With those nasty rumors of a mysterious alien plague spreading in the Galactic east, wouldn’t an event like this make his year? Open pocketbooks, donations for all his charitable works. And he would certainly have something scathing and awful to say about her choice of companion; no degree would make up for Rahse’s red skin in his eyes, and nor would the truth of their acquaintance. Cristine scanned the groups nearest to them, dreading the sight of a familiar profile. Warmth traveled up her neck and down to the tips of her toes. ”You know, maybe you’re right. There’s, uhm, a lot of paperwork that needs to be done. Back on the ship.” Cristine fidgeted, drawing her gauzy silk shawl up to her shoulders. A momentary hush fell, and a pair of interior doors swung open onto the grand ballroom. The Supreme Chancellor had arrived. Surely a sign that it was far too late to flee.

[Ghostie]

Most of the guests to the Republic’s Gala were already inside, though a few lingered in the midsts of conversations on the stairs up to the ballroom as Orren swept past, cloak swirling behind him as it just lightly touched the floor when he climbed the steps. Some of the Jedi assigned as additional security had decided to dress more formally, to match those in attendance. Orren had felt that for himself, at least, a more traditional approach was appropriate. As the Master of the Jedi Order, he had opted for something only a tad more formal that his regular robes. Something of the same style, yet all cream, with a tan cloak and a simple leather belt. His silvery lightsaber hilt bounced at his hip as his pace hastened, and the left sleeve of his robes followed suit, empty given the Miraluka’s lost appendage.

To say that the Jedi Master enjoyed attending events such as these would be a stretch. Orren personally respected Chancellor Vrieska, and saw him as an ally as they worked together to help the Republic recover in the aftermath of the War with the Sith. This Gala, however, was simply not his scene. Not a scene for any Jedi, in his mind. Still, Coruscant Security was stretched thin, and the Senatorial Guards could only do so much. And with the events surrounding this Saolin Cartel that can only recently cropped up on Coruscant, Orren had offered the Jedi’s services to reinforce security. That was, in fact, the first part of his job tonight; coordinating with the heads of two other forces to ensure a peaceful and happy Gala for the invitees.

The second part of Orren’s job that night was far less fun. It had been suggested to the Master of the Jedi Order that while he was coordinating with security, he should rub shoulders with those in attendance, shake hands, and laugh at bad jokes. Be the face of the Jedi Order. Be personable, in a time when most people saw the Jedi as mystical warriors that swooped in and created as many problems as they solved. It was not a bad suggestion, since the Miraluka had time to think on it. And he reasoned that the best place he could stand guard would be were most of the attendees to the Gala would be located. But at events like these, with guests like this, a certain game was always being played. A party was never just a party. This game of words, of politics, favors, double-talk, and the civilized struggle for power; even in his old age, and the leadership position he held, Orren couldn’t understand it.

Or, perhaps he confused ‘couldn’t understand’ with ‘not wanting to understand’.

Stopping at the entrance to the grand ballroom with only a slight nod to the Senatorial Guard who stood watch, a nod that was returned curtly, Orren entered the room with little fanfare and gusto. The brown wrap that covered his lidless eyes scanned the room, looking for anything out of the ordinary before he proceeded. There was a multitude of different races represented tonight, from senators that Orren recognized, to members of the military he was friendly with, and business tycoons he had only ever seen in newsreels. The mob of people was a little more than a large, dull flare of presences to Orren’s senses, graduating from grey to white and back again, like a large storm cloud that had yet to let loose it’s rain and thunder.

The sight of the Miralukan species was funny like that. They could see someone’s presence in the Force, recognise it like one might recognise a face they had met before, but little beyond that. And there, in the midst of the storm cloud, was a singular bright presence. Intense, and not yet fully honed. The Master of the Jedi Order knew another Jedi when he saw them, and this Jedi in particular was familiar. The feelings rolling off of the Zelosian all but confirmed who they were; the great anxiety, bubbliness, and some slight confusion. Gliding silently up beside the student, Orren spoke up for the first time since entering the ballroom, making himself heard over the drowning noise of conversation and music.

“Padawan Terai…” Orren’s voice was stiff, but not chiding. Not yet. Rahebi Terai was not one of the Jedi assigned to this event. His bearded face of grey and auburn turned down on her, a stoic expression crossing his lips, and the brown mask across his eyes as impossible to read as ever. “... Have you completed your patrol of the rooftop, yet?” If Rahebi wanted to be here, Orren was going to make her work for it. And make her second guess her choices for that night. The rooftop of the building was quite a ways up, and it was a chilly, windy night. And yet, security was still patrolling it, as well as every other possible entry point. “You might want to find yourself a jacket…” Orren added, a bit softer. “... It’s quite cold tonight. And your lightsaber. We can’t be too careful, even here.”

And with that, Orren turned and left the Zelosian standing alone, leaving little room for debate on the matter. The Chancellor would be out, soon. And Orren hoped to at least catch a few words with the man, before he was dragged off elsewhere.

[Rugs]

The great doors slid silently apart to reveal the Dreamspun Hoard’s main ballroom. The already-illustrious space had been turned to one that any palace across the Galaxy might envy. Already, the place buzzed with an energy that Alder felt in his bones as a wave of quiet rippled across the crowd.

Conversations fell abruptly quiet. Every eye turned to him.

“My friends,” he said, clasping his hands together as he walked confidently into the room. He wasn’t miced up, but he projected, voice clear, reverberating from the gently-arced ceiling. “Compatriots and honored guests. On behalf of the Senate, and on behalf of the Galactic Republic, I, Alder Vrieska, welcome you to the Republic’s Gala.”

The two Senate guards that flanked him stopped as he approached a small dais and moved to stand on either side. The dais was a simple thing — he eschewed some of the fineries of Chancellors past, much as did he his predecessor and mentor, as long as all could see and hear him.

“Tonight, we celebrate our Republic,” Alder said. “Tonight, we celebrate that for more than 20,000 years, she has stood firm as a beacon of hope, liberty, and justice in a Galaxy that can often find itself lacking in all three.”

“Tonight, we celebrate her resilience — a resilience we have all seen tested in trials that have shaken us to our very cores. Three years ago today, many of you, like I, watched in horror as the Sith Empire tried to lay siege to this world, tried to strike at the very heart of our Republic.”

A projector, hidden in the ceiling, flared to life. An image flared to life atop a cleared area between Alder’s dais and the gala’s crowd. The Senate building stood beneath a blood-red sky, with countless fingers of black smoke climbing from the cityscape around it. Starfighters screamed through the air, flitting like gnats among Coruscant's towering skyscrapers. In the distance, a cruiser crashed to the ground, engulfed in a ball of flame and smoke as a building crumbled beneath it.

“Yet even in that darkest hour, even in the crucible’s hottest flames, we stood strong,” Alder continued. “We turned the Sith away. We endured.” The footage changed to the battle above Coruscant. The Enduring Flame, flanked by Republic cruisers and battleships, waded into the heart of the Sith fleet, soaking up turbolaser fire as it tore a Sith battlecruiser apart.

“These years since have not been easy,” Alder said as the image faded, replaced by a still of a memorial under construction near the Senate building. “The war’s scars are deep, and there’s much healing left to do. Many of you lost loved ones. Many of our finest men and women sacrificed everything so that we might know the peace we enjoy today.

“And though we still stand, we cannot simply rest because our war is done. Countless of our brothers and sisters, mothers and daughters, fathers and sons still live under the rule of a tyrannical government they did not welcome and do not want.” Alder let a silence hang for a moment before he continued. “To our east, billions still live under the threat an invader they do not know, who will wage war upon us as readily and willingly as they will anyone else in this Galaxy.

“So tonight, celebrate,” he said, raising a glass that rested on atop the dais’ lectern. “We have so much to celebrate and to be thankful for. But when the day is done and tomorrow comes, remember that if we are the beacon we say we are, you, me — all of us, have a lot of work still to do. Thank you.”

With a nod, Alder raised his glass as applause rippled through the room and stepped down from the dais. His two guard rejoined him, staying back as he walked toward the crowd. The address was done. Now it was time for the politicking.

[Muffinzky]

Rahebi dared to take another zip of the drink. Unfortunately, it didn’t get any better no matter how much she swirled the fluid around the surface of her tongue. Her nose wrinkled with fine lines, and she forced herself not to stick her tongue out in disgust. She was completely in her own thoughts and considered if one of the little canapés could remove the horrible sensation, when a familiar voice – a little too familiar for her comfort, sounded visibly beside her:
“Padawan Terai”

AAAAAAAAAAAARHHHH!

Staring directly up in the what-would-be-eyes of Orren, Rahebis’ face was frozen, uttering terror and alarm. Her lips opened slightly, yet no scream escaped her, but a faint and long exhale like that of a punctured balloon was perceptible. And the intense emerald green eyes widened as she screamed internally.

They found me!
She hurried to hide the glass of whatever-demon-water-it-is behind her back. And tugged her dress a little further down her thigs.

Of course! Of course – of all the possible Jedi that could attend, the Master of the Order had to be there. She knew him. Everyone knew Orren, didn’t they?... Unless they lived under a rock. That was.
The redhead had the great honour – or great annoyance- depending on how you would look at – to have spoken personally with Orren before. Several times. If someone deemed Rahebi to be unruly and the tall Miraluka was around, it would be him that would occasionally drop a speech of morality. One that was supposed to either make her feel better or accommodate to their wishes. Which it was, was hard for Rahebi to tell, as it seldomly made her feel better. But rather guilty. This was also the case now, and the young woman suddenly seemed to be shrinking. Actually, by several heads, since her body instinctively tried to duck out of the non-existent and burdensome stare behind the Miraluka’s brown mask, bending backwards in a great limbo move she was unaware that she could make.

"Ro-rooftop?!" Rahebi could only gawk in confusion and disbelief.

But the grandfather of the Jedi didn’t react to her words. Instead he turned around to leave her. And Rahebi concluded what she already knew: Old Master Orren was vaccinated against all things fun as an infant.

Did he know what time it was? It was night. Which meant it was dark.

He-lloooe? Little Zelosian over here.
Zelosian – Darkness. Darkness – Zelosians!

This. Is racism! This is borderline Padawan abuse!

Which meant that if not for her extra senses like Force sight, Rahebi would be blind as a mole.
Rahebi HATED darkness. And if Orren had paid any attention, he would probably remember a story of a little redheaded Zelosian at the age of 11, that by accident was locked into a room after class in the temple. Most Jedi would by logic have used the Force to get themselves out of the room, but this was Rahebi. Rahebi threw herself down the floor in foetal position while she screamed as if she had a minor seizure. For 15 minutes. Until someone opened the door and turned the light back on. Then she behaved as if nothing had happened. And honestly it hadn’t become better since then. It was not the case that she had some actual unpleasant encounters within darkness. It was rather a feeling that she instinctively couldn’t help but to follow.

Hiding slightly behind the closest dinner table, she peeked innocently up over the table top at the Jedi Master as he walked further away.

Is he gone?

He could still see her… And she knew that. Such was the cursed or blessed sight of his species.
But hey, at least it made her feel better to pretend that it had the slightest effect to hide behind an object.
Could he be distracted?
Was it possible to temporarily blind a man that already was blind? Was it even ethical to consider such things, if just for a moment!? Was there a support-foundation or therapy-hotline you could call in case of Padawan injustice? Who Jedi’ed the head of the Jedi?
Such questions and many more in the same likelihood went through the Zelosian’s head. And the green eyed little monster reached a beautifully manicured hand up on the table to abduct and kill 5 pieces of canapés that had to sacrifice their entire existence for Rahebis’ sustenance.
Like that she licked her lips in a lizard-like manner and plotted her next move. Only to take another zip of the horrible concoction in her glass, emptying the last drops. If that was what made people act all crazy and silly, she didn’t understand it. She couldn’t feel a thing. Except the flavour – or the lack of it.

Weeeeellp… From a technical point of view, he didn’t tell me WHEN to patrol the rooftop.
…
Patrol the rooftop?
…
Who in their right mind would attack from the rooftop when all the important personalities are down here?! It’s much easier to infiltrate where it’s at.

Master Orren has clearly become senile since the last time I saw him.
That only reinforced her decision without much doubt:
Nope!

Rahebi was not going up on any rooftop. The Rahebi was going to stay there. Right there. In the warmth and light area. It was gross at the roof. And dark. And dark was gross. The only way Orren could make her go up there was if he threw her over the shoulder, walked her to the roof, placed her bottom on Jedi-safe super glue and locked the door behind her.

She straightened her posture, grabbed another glass of horrible drink in one hand, a napkin in the other, then initiated the process of escaping Orren. However, she didn’t get far, as Alder started to speak. For good measure she stopped with a small smile of excitement. Now it was starting.

The projector flashed history back to life. The battleships of each faction burst into flames in the middle of the room, as if she was standing there herself in the middle of it. The city was afire.
The pictures changed. And with each word. With each picture that changed, her smile faded a little. Somewhere in her gut, acid was building up. And she had to look away and chew on her lower lip. There was no smoke… but it felt like it scratched in her lungs.

“We turned the Sith away. We endured”, Alder said with confidence.

How can you say… How can you say that?

Rahebis’ breath was shivering. The white sclerae of her eyes started to turn a noticeable shade of olive.

“Many of our finest men and women sacrificed everything so that we might know the peace we enjoy today”.

How can you say this when there is still so much going on under the surface?
She felt the bitterness from her insides pressuring to get up. If this was what they called peace, then what was war? The Padawan had been clenching her fist. Her knuckles had turned pale from the minutes she had held the position of her arm straight down her side.

The only difference is that they are leading it behind the curtain. In silence. If any trace of it escapes, it is being swept down under the rug. How can he say that… When Ishtar was slaughtered within this so-called prosperity. They are all afraid. Frozen from taking any action for the fear of rustling the conflict up again. But it’s here… Even within this room.

The Zelosian’s eyes were shiny. Slightly wet. She had to swallow something. She felt sick
Suddenly Rahebis’ legs took action. She needed to go. Not to the roof. She had no idea where, but the chatter started again, and it sounded louder. Like a roaring ocean, when the waves crashes against stone. She didn’t care where she would end. Anywhere but here would be good enough.

With fast steps she navigated in between the guests. Determined, but with no clear goal in mind. In her movement, she lacked some of the attention to her surroundings. The plan of getting less noticed fell to the ground, when she yet again managed to bump into someone. Another guard of sorts. One of prince Eudons’ guards to be exact. The Padawan’s world went in slow motion, when she realised what had happened. The content of her glass had escaped its container in the crash and splashed neatly up on the white jacket of the prince.
Once again Rahebi was powerless and looked with horror at the scene. At a loss for words, she raised her hands and covered her mouth with a gasp. Why now?

[CaptainBonkers]

Alder’s speech was standard fare for an event such as this which was to say that it was idealistic and bursting with Republican patriotism. It did, however, make a laudable use of holographic supplements to put the guests hailing from Republic worlds in the right mood, garish as they might have otherwise been. It was also mercifully short, saving Eudon having to listen the man drone on about republican virtues or another such subject as he had feared. A welcome development, though one he would not be complimenting his host once he saw fit to exchange the necessary pleasantries with the Chancellor. After all, being complimented on succeeding to not be as boring as expected was hardly a compliment.

As the crowd began their applause at the end of the speech, Eudon joined them with one of his own. It was a diplomat's applause; indifferent and unenthusiastic but sincere enough as not to be impolite or insulting. It was also quick to die out; while it took few minutes for the Republic applause to simmer down, Eudon let his own end after a respectable duration, leaving him among the earlier people to end their applause. While the other guests continued their nationalism fueled clapping, Eudon scanned the room.

There were plenty of familiar faces in the crowd; mostly senators he had met when father had served in the Senate. Few of them were more than passing acquaintances to him, though many of them likely still considered father their friend, even after the less than graceful way at which the Tapani had departed Republic. However, that had hardly been his father’s fault; as the Senator for Fondor and representative of the whole of Tapani sector his hand had been forced. The now defunct Great Council, tired of the sacrifices the war with the Empire demanded, had decided for independence and the duty to read out the declaration had fallen to him.

Of course, some of them might still be bitter over the fact that after securing the throne Eudon’s father had not brought the newly re-organized high kingdom back to fold as many had hoped he would. But the people of the sector had spoken through demonstrations, strikes and even a few riots; they would no longer tolerate to bear the cost of the war that to them had begun to seem like a religious conflict between the Sith and the Jedi.

Well, Eudon was familiar with that resentment. He could work with it, though he absolutely refused to apologize for the decision to secede from the Republic. He would be polite and admit that it had been handled less than gracefully but never would he allow the morality of the decision to be questioned in his presence without voicing his resentment towards such an opinion. Loudly and insistantly.

Eudon’s attention was drawn back to his immediate surroundings when a tug of the Force suggested that a quick step backwards might be warranted. Even this turned out to be a blink too late; with his subconscious mind focused on minimizing his footprint in the Force his ability to sense the presence was left dulled and sluggish. A guest collided with a member of his security detail, sending her drink flying at Eudon. The airborne liquid collided with the front of his jacket, spreading all over it before running down the front in small, pearl-like droplets. Not a single drop was absorbed by the fabric.

A gleaming white military uniform was too tempting of a target for protesters of all political leanings as well as extremely vulnerable towards accidents. This Eudon had learned long since and come prepared; his uniform was made of extremely liquid resistant materials and treated with hydrophobic coating for good measure, rendering it largely impervious to staining by liquid materials. That did not meant that being accosted in such a manner did not deeply annoy him, not least because he himself had managed to spill most of his drink instinctively trying to avoid the splash. An excellent vintage of Red Alderaanian was currently spreading as a puddle on the floor which was criminal waste as far as Eudon was concerned.

He fixed his gaze on the girl, giving him a deeply irritated glare while also giving the lass a cursory examination. Ginger hair, barely twenty and dressed quite inappropriately. For goodness’ sake, she wasn’t even wearing shoes! Obviously too young and uncouth to be anyone worth his time. Either she was here as someone’s plus one or was a gatecrasher.

“Pray mind where you are going, girl! Or did you leave your senses at home with the rest of your outfit?” he snapped. His detail was positioning itself in a more offensive formation between him and the girl, though the horrified look on her face suggested that this was an accident and not an act of political activism. Still, should the young lady try anything stupid she’d be dogpiled four burly agents in a second flat.

[Meira]

"Boring."

"Excuse me?"

The woman stopped dancing and turned around. Her long, blue legs stood in a straight V above her torso. He could see her thighs flexing as her hands went to her hips. His eyes lowered and saw that her shoulders were tensing as well. Below that, her yellow eyes glared at him.

"I said boooooring." he sighed as he lowered his legs from the back of the couch and turning his body upright once again. The sudden rush of blood from his head was the most interesting thing to happen to him in the last hour at least. Eamon drew in a deep breath and let it out, blowing a raspberry and causing the woman to huff in anger and stomp away from him.

The main room of the penthouse was cast in low lights. The music issuing from the sound system thumped in a rhythmic, thoughtless beat that remained the same no matter how the melody changed. Beside him on the couch, several limbs moved in a tangle of bodies that Eamon couldn't quite count. All around him, various acquaintances talked, danced, drank, and ingested their own preferred poisons. Eamon didn't know most of these people. They were friends of his niece who was staying at the family penthouse while attending a conference. Eamon had detached himself from Rahse and Cris when they'd arrived at Coruscant, having no interest in attending the Gala that evening. Now, looking around the penthouse, he was beginning to wonder if he'd made a mistake.

A hand from the tangle of limbs reached out and grabbed at his collar. He took hold of the wrist and pulled it away, holding it up to look at it. The fingers of the hand reached toward him, grazing lightly against the stubble of his cheek. He considered the possibility for a moment, but rejected it. Gods help him, he wanted to go to the ball.

---

A golden leather shoe was the first thing out of the speeder, followed by a long leg clad in matching matte gold pants striped with shiner threads that were also gold. The torso was wrapped in dark red, filigreed with more delicate threads of gold ivy. The jacket, buttoned twice at the front, fit snugly over a silk red shirt with a high collar. Eamon had combed his hair, allowing the forward-most curls to fall down over his forehead just so. He hadn't bothered to shave. A bit of stubble did wonders for his jawline. At the security station, he presented the invitation his niece had given to him and allowed the guards to scan him. They'd made a small fuss about the flask he carried, but acquiesced when he'd taken a sip to show the contents were safe, relatively speaking.

He was making his way up the marble staircase as the assembled guests of the gala broke out into applause. Eyes flicked to see the Supreme Chancellor stepping down from a dais. Bringing his own hands together a few times, Eamon made his way directly to one of the several bars scattered around the perimeter of the event space. The crowd, now released from the speech that Eamon was glad to have missed, began moving about as well. He found himself reaching the bar at the same time as several other thirsty guests. Both of the bartenders were, regrettably, at the other end of the bar and Eamon was left waiting. He tapped a foot, rapped his knuckles on the bar top and clenched his jaw.

"For fucks sake." he said, after an arduous twenty seconds or so.

In a swift motion, Eamon hopped over the bar, landing gracefully on the other side and began to study the assorted bottles there. Selecting a familiar tall, thin bottle sitting on ice, he began to mix together a simple starter drink. He'd practically grown up drinking Tyrena Mules back home. It was, in fact, the first drink he'd learned to mix.

Across the bar, someone cleared their throat. Looking up, Eamon saw a very tall Cerean man looking pointedly at the copper mug Eamon was just finishing up with a thin slice of lime on the rim. The man looked back up at Eamon with an arched eyebrow and pointed at the mug, asking if Eamon might make another.

"If it isn't too much of a bother."

Having the ingredients handy, it was no bother and so Eamon set the finished mug up onto the bar for the man and set about mixing another for himself.

"Sir! You can't be back here!"

Looking to his right, Eamon saw that the bartenders had finally deigned to notice his far end of the area. Moving quickly, he grabbed another slice of lime and dropped it into his mug, then hopped back over the bar just as one of them began to walk toward him.

"Yes, yes. I'm leaving." he mumbled as he snagged his mug and danced away from the bar before the man could get too worked up. He sipped at the mug as he moved, noting that his rush job wasn't half bad. His eyes scanned the crowd and had just caught sight of Cris and Rahse when he was brought to an abrupt halt as a young woman collided with a man just in front of him. Her drink, escaping from the glass she carried, splashing onto a white military suit. Eamon winced instinctively in sympathy for the man, but soon saw that his sentiment was unwarranted. "Clever man." he muttered, his eyes scanning over the obviously regal gentleman with appreciation. "A bit old, though." This last musing was interrupted as a security man of some sort stepped between Eamon and the man, who was now expertly chastising the girl. Eamon smiled at the man, allowing him to maneuver him a step or two away from the ordeal.

"His royal highness is lucky to have such attentive staff." he said, having now recognized Eudon. He was not acquainted with the Tapani prince, of course. But the noble circles kept themselves well aware of the Royal families. Eamon's eyes sought to catch Eudon's as the guard continued to maneuver him back away from the prince, ready to wink should the man glance his way. Bar that, he moved toward Rahse and Cris.

"Did I miss anything?" he asked over his shoulder toward the two as he neared, still keeping his frame facing the way he'd come as he settled his weight against a high-top table next to the pair.

[Fromikeable]

Rahse didn't let his brow furrow in concern as Cris went from utter confidence to fidgeting doubt. These were the nerves he had suspected, but their absence until now had more than alleviated his worries. That combined with Cris's adept approach to new scenarios and her intelligence overall had made his "lecture" on the stairs more of a joke than anything.

Now it almost seemed like she actually needed the advice. Something had changed.

"None so urgent that it can't wait until well into tomorrow. Forgive my lecturing; we should enjoy the evening." Gazing at the surrounding crowds as the Chancellor gave his speech, Rahse paid the man only most of his mind, still catching every word. The talk was as expected, espousing the resiliency of the Republic for enduring the assault of the Empire during the war. Again. It was a good speech, to be sure, sweet, solid, and to the point, but as he clapped, Rahse was sure that certain facts had been omitted.

For one thing, Coruscant had been directly threatened in such a way since the Great Hyperspace War fourteen hundred years prior. For another, in that war, the Republic had won.

Keeping his thoughts to himself, Rahse frowned lightly. His scan of the crowds revealed nothing, or at least, nothing that he knew would knock Dr. Bellamy out of ease. Glancing at her, he elected to pocket his hands, leaving the issue be. Poking at it would no doubt only agitate it further, and no precautions could be taken until he knew the nature of the problem. Waiting and seeing didn't strike him as particularly wise either, but with a modicum of time, she might tell him more.

Or, at best, the problem could dissolve entirely. Either way.

The crowd broke as the Chancellor descended, and Rahse turned to find Eamon approaching them, drink in hand, body language abnormal. Humming at him, Rahse smirked a bit. "Oh, stars, yes. Did you not see the naked cheer-leaders and double-jointed sword-eaters as you entered?" Popping a hand out of his pocket with an ornate, mechanical pocket watch, Rahse popped it open, the hands within ticking a fashion decidedly opposite to the smooth holograms they had witnessed, yet well meshed with their up-class surroundings. Sucking his lip, he shook his head.

"Remind me, Dr. Bellamy. Did Dr. Namor say he would be arriving almost a half hour late? I seem to recall some valiant argument about how wasting the night in some penthouse in the Sprig'zenai sector would be a far better use of his time."

[Stephen]

Veston made his way toward the commotion, as meager as it was. Any commotion at an event with the supreme chancellor was going be at least worth getting tagged with a stun baton and dropped into a dark room with some rough lads. It was such a strange play to make a move this early in the party with the chancellor. It was far to early to be drunk, unless you showed up rolling and just somehow got past the guards and with the security, the people that might make a scene under normal circumstances would like move on under any normal duress. This polarizing of a scenario left only two options; A moron or an assassination attempt. If it was the former, it'd likely be hilarious. If it's the latter, then he'd be one of the first to know the news if he survived, and it'd be handy to have a three or four hour head start to start capitalizing on the ensuing market instability.

What he found was a small issue involving jedi. Alas, it seemed the republics temperamental janitors were already cleaning up whatever mess was happening. Oh well, perhaps later something could be worth gawking at and perhaps rubbing your chin knowingly. A speech followed soon after, as they are wont to do at such events. The higher you climbed in stratum, the more likely you had to christen events like these. The chancellor likely had give a small address to the commode every time he woke up for a midnight thirty piss. It must be exhausting, but he seemed fine, at least the moment. The jingoism wasn't so strong as to be unbearable and the crowd seemed pleased enough, so he seemed to more or less hit the mark. Moving on.

He made his way near the front of the room, to a couple. A women in a fairly suitable dress and matching shawl and a bright red man in a silver and black velvet suit. It was the social equivalent of that one guy in the merc group in bright fluorescent pink armour that constantly yells about how cover is for cowards and gets his seal of freshness popped at the first sign of danger. Still maybe he figured a Zeltron probably stood out enough in this group, so he might as well steer into the spin and go for it. Still velvet must be impossibly hot in this room. He gestured with his drink back over his shoulder toward the commotion from earlier, “You guys manage to catch what happened earlier?” speech was over, time for the scuttlebutt.

[Neology]

[googlefont="News Cycle"]

dress ”As far as you know.” Cristine whispered at Rahse, elbowing him gently in the ribs. ”That journal wont write itself.” The work was a joint endeavor between the trio of doctors, though a lingering fascination of hers long after the others were ready to move on. Demonstrable and meticulously cataloged proof that the skin secretions of the Jabimmian puking toad could be used to treat the Gray Rot, a terrible pandemic only recently gotten under control on that rainy planet. Still. Bacta was the proven vaccine and cure – and much more widely available on most developed planets. Perhaps it really could wait. Chancellor Vrieska’s speech was quite lovely, in any case. Cristine’s apprehension lifted somewhat, buoyed up and away by the excitement and goodwill of those present. She clapped demurely but an irrepressible smile animated her face. ”Oh, hello Eamon.” She dipped a quick curtsy. As usual, Dr. Namor made her feel plainly dressed by comparison – though she was not sure about those gold-on-gold striped pants. ”No need to be sour, Rahse. I’m sure, between the three of us, we can strike up some funding. To the next adventure.” She gestured a fake toast, having not yet secured a drink. It was only partway a joke; Dr. Namor was very well connected if a little strange. Speaking off ... A stranger drew up beside them, a tall dark haired human. His pinstripe suit seemed very fine, not as eccentric as what Rahse and Eamon had worn tonight. When neither of the men made an immediate introduction, she spoke up. ”Nooo? … Wait, I did see a girl with no shoes on. I didn’t know this was that sort of party.” Smiling, she offered her hand to shake. "Dr. Bellamy."

[Rugs]

A familiar rush — a tingling that spread from the tips of his fingers — washed over Alder as he stepped into the crowd. With the most visible duty of the night done, he now came to the most important — being accessible, active and playing an ear to his people’s concerns.

No matter how much ass-kissing events like the gala tended to bring — and here they came, rushing like parched men in the middle of a desert — there were always nuggets of truth to be found. There were always hints of real problems that needed addressing or valid criticisms that he could use to better himself and, hopefully, the Republic.

And then there was, of course, the game. “Ah yes, good to see you again, Madam Fost,” he said, shaking the woman’s hand fondly and embracing her briefly. She hailed from Corellia and was a power-player in the world’s legendary shipyards. Corellia’s allegiance to the Republic was unyielding, but it was good to keep people like Madam Fost happy, especially as the Republic built up its fleet.

There was Councilor Dazo Wo, of Ithor. Alder paused to hold a brief, but sincere conversations with the Ithorian, whose herdship had only barely escaped the Sith onslaught against Ithor itself. Yes, the Republic mourned greatly for Ithor’s loss to the Empire, and hoped daily for its eventual restoration. But that time had not yet come. Dazo understood this, at least. He, like many of his people, was remarkably patient.

With a pat on the Ithorian councilor’s shoulder, Alder moved on, flanked as ever by his blue-clad guards. More conversations popped up as he went. A request for an audience that he’d submit to his staff to organize later. A complaint about taxes. More than one question about the crisis that threatened to spiral out of control in the Galaxy’s east.

Yes, we’re watching that one closely, he thought as he moved on from the last one of those questions. Horst was burning the midnight oil tonight, searching for solutions to that. Alder couldn’t help but smile to himself at that. The general hated coming to the galas every year. This was the first he’d had the chance to skip, thanks to Hutt Space setting itself on fire.

He wondered how much General Stellar preferred tangling up with the Senate to hobnobbing here.

We’ll do that together soon enough, he mulled. A joint address to the Senate authorizing the Flame’s deployment — that’d either get him roasted alive or applauded as brave, for making the same request his Chief of General Staff had a dozen times.

He passed by a table with a handful of people he didn’t recognize. One was wearing a suit so golden it was a wonder he’d made it past the detectors in security. Alder paused, attention held for a moment as he finally grinned. “That, sir, is a fine suit,” he said. “Perhaps Raithsaphi should’ve made you the guest of honor instead of me.”

[Fromikeable]

"Sour is such a strong word. I would rather 'miffed'." Smirking, Rahse plucked a glass from the tray of a passing waiter, a cocktail of some sort within. Giving it an experimental sip, he found it palatable enough to swirl the glass with approval, motioning its bottom at Eamon's outfit. About to comment, an interloper interrupted, hair wetted down, suit impeccable in make. His question prompted Rahse to peer over his shoulder at the situation developing in the middle of the floor.

A young woman on the ground, a man in military dress reading her a lengthy riot act about a spilled drink. Watching the beverage drip off the man's clothing, Rahse couldn't help but wonder why it refused to soak in.

“That, sir, is a fine suit.”

Looking to his other side, Rahse found himself peering up at the most illustrious man of the honor himself; Chancellor Vrieska. Up close, the man didn't quite match the air he had while on holo. Imposing and composed, certainly, but he lacked that godly quality politicians in the limelight seemed to summon. It was a comfort to see; even the mightiest of titans turned out to be sentient, just like them all.

He would only the subject of some eclectic historian in a thousand years no matter what.

"I must disagree with you, Chancellor. I feel like platinum is more his color." Reaching out a hand, Rahse put on his best smile, practiced and walking a fine line between sly and kind, ready to go either way at a moment's notice.

"Doctor Rahse Hyul. This walking Life Day ornament is my fellow, Doctor Eamon Nador. The pleasure is ours."

[Muffinzky]

“I-I-I…”
Rahebi couldn’t get herself to press the words out of her mouth. Suddenly it felt dry, suffocating any sentient conversation that otherwise would have poured out of her lips.

She swallowed hard.

-F-thump. F-thump. F-thump. F-thump-
All the voices in the room suddenly seemed louder and echoed in between each other. She could hear her own heartbeat, how the blood cascaded through her veins.

“I didn’t mean to, I-I”

Her breath was shaking, as her pupils contracted into small dots in the green. She could feel the attention of several people resting indomitably upon her person.
And she froze.

N-no. This is not how it is supposed to be.

She looked down her own dress, suddenly feeling ashamed where there previously had been no problem. Was it bad? Was it wrong? It was the best thing she could get for the occasion with the minimal resources she as a Jedi had at hand. She just wanted one evening where she could forget everything.
So far, this has not been the case.

Her breathing fastened. She was already sensitive from the Chancellors speech. Leaving her senses?
No. No, rather the opposite. Rahebi’s senses were always picking everything up with no filter, and this absolutely wasn’t making it any better. Where the prince was great at concealing his own presence in the Force, Rahebi had tried to keep it on the low throughout the evening. But it was never an ability that she had learned to control fully. She felt frightened, and Eudon’s comment in a hurtful place started to cut the few inner ropes of restraint that Rahebi had. For a Force user, this was rather easy to notice. As her feelings were bleeding out in the room on increasing volume.
She felt so cold.

Physically the loosening of her control and the impression Eudon made on Rahebi started to show. Subtle things in the area close around her were happening. And the skilled or watchful eye would notice.

The ends of hair on Rahebi’s back started to twist back and forth in a calm movement. And yet, there was no wind in the area. It moved slightly. But more like a snake.

A few meters behind her were the doctors. Carefully but surely, the liquid cocktail in Rahse’s glass begun to move after he stopped swirling it around. Varying patterns shaped the surface of the drink. Lines of squares and soft circles danced around. It was almost as if inaudible sound waves of different decibel were affecting it.

-Plop-
The surface stopped moving, but a round droplet raised from the drink and floated up in the air in front of his face.

The Padawan clenched her fist to stop her fingers from shaking and buried her nails into the meat of her palm.

This is meant to be a happy event. Not here. Not where everyone can see me.

But her heart wouldn’t stop the wild pounding in her chest. – That was until she took a deep breath. And a familiar mantra, not one that was official for the Order started to play in her head. It was more the combined product of the social conditioning she had experienced and the desperate disdain of herself that at times would follow. She closed her eyes.

I’m faithful… I’m… grateful? Do as they say. Stay. Obey.

When she opened them again, a little smile was showing on her lips. She felt like she could move freely again, and she started to notice all the little things that she had liked when she entered the room: The music. People that were laughing. Not of necessarily at her, but because they were enjoying themselves.
As quickly as the little signs started to show, as quickly did they stop. Almost like they never happened. The hair strands on her back held still and the droplet fell back into the cocktail glass.

Folding her arms behind her back, Rahebi cocked her head to the side and looked directly at the prince with new found confidence. -Ignoring the existence of the black coated gorillas that created a wall between her and him. Her smile grew bigger and a chuckle sounded from her.

“Oh, kind sir. I’m glad that you noticed. There are so many varieties of people in the Republic. It’s what makes it amazing living here. But at the same time… kind of sad: Many are unable to be here tonight. Many are still living under dictatorship, not being able to do what they truly want in life. And I have chosen to represent some those cultural minorities in my outfit tonight. We shouldn’t forget those, as we celebrate.

Because of course – a man with a powerful position and a HUGE responsibility, like yours, spend time thinking about those. And how he could make the world a much better place with his political- and prosperous physical presence. Spreading peace and happiness wherever he goes.
Doncha?... Sir”.

Rahebi waved her long eyelashes innocently.

[CaptainBonkers]

Honestly, children these days. Instead of doing the proper thing and apologizing profusely before scampering off, this one had the gall to try to justify her lack of etiquette and tact by claiming her costume was cultural wear. Cultural wear! Unless parvenu party girls were considered an oppressed minority in Republic, Eudon doubted one could find a people claiming wearing a cocktail dress as part of their cultural identity. Her lack of manners, however, received some explanation during the few moments that the girl had spent stuttering for an answer. Even with his Sense dulled due to his focus on disguising his presence in the Force, he could sense hers. It was stronger than your average socialite's and its shape was well formed, suggesting training. So most likely a Jedi. No wonder she had no idea how to conduct herself properly and followed her excuses with a torrent of unsolicited political opinions. The line of Eudon's mouth narrowed as he pressed his lips together in annoyance.

"I am well aware of my duties, miss. Do not presume to make hasty assumptions of what I must or should do." he said in a voice as warm and friendly as permafrost. "Now, scamper off before I call the security on you. I'm certain they would love to see your invitation."

To emphasize his words one of his bodyguards retrieved a comm from his belt and held it ready be used. Hopefully that would be enough to get rid of the uncouth distraction. Eudon had more important things to do than to get bogged down by a discussion on what she thought his duties and responsibilities to the poor oppressed peoples of the Galaxy were. He had none, of course. Eudon's duties were to the people of the Tapani High Kingdom and anyone calling them oppressed was either avowed republican whose anti-monarchist views refused to see the truth because it didn't fit their narrative or a staggeringly ignorant of the standards of living the Tapani subjects were enjoying. Eudon's interest for the welfare of other peoples largely ended at the border. He might sympathize with the poor and suffering in other nations but it wasn't his duty to actively work to make their lives better.

[Stephen]

Veston reached out and politely shook Dr. Bellamy's hand. He nodded to her and her plus one. Then her plus one did just about the strangest thing. The Chancellor made his way to their social circle, and he introduced literally a random person to his left and no one else. As far as bizarre social faux pas went, it was hard to match. It was almost too awkward to directly mention. Clearly this party had lost the plot. Veston eyes wandered the crowd a moment, trying to understand this moment but he caught hold of no one. Social obligation and need for escape drove him further. “Miss Bellamy, would you care for a drink?” he offered.

He didn't need to hear her response. Unless she found him truly horrifying, she would follow. Her partner just socially violently evacuated his bowels on the floor, anyone would want away from that. Veston smiled plainly at Ms Bellamy, before grabbing a pair of tongs of the table and divvying out ice into a cocktail shaker. He followed it with gin, lemon juice, and sugary syrup before giving a gentle tumble. “So you are a doctor then? Is that a doctorate, or of medicine?” Could be both, but if so he'd let her brag about that. He poured his mixture into two cups of seltzer water before returning the shaker to the table. He politely moved her drink to her side of the table and took his in hand. There was something fitting about taking twin drinks from the same receptacle that bespoke of trust in Veston. She could be at least sure he wasn't poisoning her.

He looked at her a moment and guessed at an appropriate tone. “Weird fucking party this.” he said plainly. “First some um, escort breaks free of her senses and makes a scene. Then your date takes one glance at the Chancellor and forgets who he came with.” Veston took a long drink from his glass and waited for a replay. “It's like he forgot who's party he came to. Lucky he knew that person directly on his left, otherwise he'd just be lying and he wouldn't even know why.” He smiled and shrugged over his glass. Whatever this party turned into, it was proving at least not boring.

[Neology]

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dress A fine suit? In cut and materials, certainly, but even a blind whomp rat might find her fellow doctors ostentatious in the extreme. Pinstripes had failed to introduce himself and Cris glanced briefly away, fully intending to say something arch and clever to the newest arrival. Oh. Rahse beat her to the punch and, despite her earlier resolution not to be starstruck, Cristine’s throat went instantly dry. She swallowed, repossessing her hand and her will. While the chancellor looked rather ordinary in person, the unformed security staff trailing in his wake were surely anything but. Cristine dearly wished to have been there on her own merit, and not because of her good friends. Next time, she vowed. But this was still a great opportunity – if any one endorsement could secure funding for their next adventure expedition … On some level, Rahse seemed to agree. Perhaps three seemed too much of an ambush, as he went on to cut her neatly out of their conversation. Pinstripes offered her a more graceful out; refusing that would border on tacky. She had been pleased enough to meet him, before. ”It’s doctor.” Miss made her sound, well … Too young for this party, for one. Unaccomplished. She trailed after him without a backward glance. ”Medical doctor, yes. Intensive care – and rather hideously overqualified for my current position, I’m afraid.” Cris sipped her drink, pleased to have some occupation for her hands. The past year felt awfully selfish, dragged out for examination in this particular mood. ”And what do you do, Pinstripes? You haven’t even told me your name.”