kindest regards,

The last place Qira thought she'd be was in an office building. She had been brought here by one of her advisors, who knew as she continued her training to one day take over her father's place, she would need to have connections to people in high places. The man led the young Sith to a fairly large office within the building itself, knocking gently before entering inside once he was told he was allowed to enter. He gave a gentle bow to @prvtocol sitting inside, and motioned for Qira to enter.

The girl's presence was much like her father's, strong and powerful, though less refined as she was still learning. However she seemed to hold an air about her that felt far more noble and contained than Vader. She had been taught well by her mother.

"Ms. Guyot, I have the pleasure to introduce you to Lord Vader's daughter, Qira. We figured if she is to one day take over her father's place, she might as well meet some of the important figures that help fund the Empire."

     The funding manager stands posture perfect, her small hands clasped softly at her front, a client-facing smile on her lips; a smile warmer and more inviting than one might find on the face of any in the Imperial military. The Finance Ministry is a government office, after all, and despite the starched shirts and suit ties, no one wears a uniform. Several people, including Brienne, were also trained to work with clients in other corporations prior to their tenure with the Empire. A banker she remains.

     Clear blue eyes hold her smile when looking at Qira, the young woman who seems to have quite the weight of future expectations on her shoulders. Does it make Brienne nervous? Not fully. The politics in that sector aren’t as prescient to someone so far below it. Besides, being calm and welcoming always makes the best impression.

⸻ ⛧ ❝ 𝘠𝘖𝘜 𝘚𝘌𝘌𝘔 𝘛𝘌𝘕𝘚𝘌, ❞ 𝘊𝘈𝘚𝘐𝘔𝘐𝘙 𝘙𝘌𝘈𝘚𝘖𝘕𝘚, starting to design a web. Not exactly the kind that spiders weave, but one that twists with various curved fine lines. Fortunately, he has steady hands. ❝ Not just the kind that makes you feel a little awkward with me painting your arm, that's normal. But you are burdened. Sad, maybe? ❞ Though he was not using cards, he was using something. After all, she paid him for this & this wasn't just pretty paint.

❝ Either you need to let go of something, or jump into it. ❞ The web he paints twists as well. Dots are added, forming a constellation. If she studied the stars from the viewpoint of her own world, Brienne might recognize it as a significant pattern from the skies of Aargau. Of course, Casimir does not know of the world personally, neither does the name come to him. He just knows that this is the constellation her painting requires. ❝ Sometimes fate calls us to more and it yearns when we don't meet with it. That yearning is not always a bad thing though. ❞

With a half thought, he answers her question, ❝ One to two weeks. Depending on how often you wash. ❞ His gaze was fixed on her arm & the delicate strokes of the paint. It was not as if he was ignoring her, but thoroughly invested in the craft.

     Dainty fingers of the hand free of the brush move to fiddle with the pearls dotting her long necklace, an outward expression of what Mister Casimir then calls it, tense. “I do?” Daft, wide eyes play along, her lips staying parted as she listens to his explanation. Tense but not for the discomfort of publicly having her arm painted by a stranger as if it were a child’s face at a carnival. 

     She blinks, sobering her expression, but her brows grow heavy in the center. She’s unsure if she agrees with his assessment. Sad? No, Brienne hardly considers herself sad. Stressed, yes. Tired, often enough, with the travel expected of her recent promotion. Uncertain whether the job is worth the added cortisol, definitely. But to be called by fate to more? Her thinking of retirement is really a call to less.

He does not miss the disbelief, and he doesn't begrudge it either: it's a dangerous world, and this danger is what has made, over the ages, his people be the way they are. Only the strong can protect themselves and their people.

But this, as usual, is contested by the views of a Jedi: those who have the means to protect should do so, and Tarre, who has over the years found a balance, remains within it: if he can help, he will, where the Force points him. It's part of what he's good at.

He's not so good at economics, in this system he doesn't know. But diplomacy has taught him more than most and then rulership had him brush off on much that he had never expected to need.

"The investment and brokerage accounts might be an angle." He admits. "Depending on how the funds are invested, it might not be implausible that someone has traced those accounts to something the bank should not have done." He points out. There, the Force almost seems to point, but it's brief. He's not certain it's a 'yes' so much as a 'perhaps', or a 'closer'. "Have you noticed any unauthorized accesses at any point?" He, and he's started pacing, up and down, before she offers him a seat.

And then, after a moment, he takes it, and sits slightly leaning forward: not the straight back of a Jedi, but something far more lost in thought.

     The pacing on her herringbone-patterned floor severs Brienne’s focus. Gaze flits from the datapad on her lap, to the roaming bounty hunter, to the nearest comm unit tucked next to the double oven in the kitchen, and then back. Again, she thinks of calling the building's droid security or CSF. He needs to sit; she needs to breathe, but the weight on her chest says otherwise. Nothing makes sense, and his suggestions only further her uncertainties. 

     An angle? Unauthorized access? The bank’s oversight? Head shakes back and forth before a “No, I have not” falls quietly from a mouth already ajar.  She hasn't noticed anything out of the ordinary, and as any sensible Aargauun, especially one schooled in finance, she knows to stay on top of her financial streams. 

The little house she chooses is quite interesting, actually. Though Casimir is no traditional fortune-teller or seer, he cannot help but analyze the meager choosing of one of his conduits. Still, he is thankful for the payment and makes quick work of putting the credits away into a pocket before choosing a brush for himself.

She seemed nervous now with her forearm bare and her name offered. ❝ It is lovely to meet you Brienne. ❞ Casimir disregards poetic words or mentioning something about fate, destiny, or the universe. It doesn't seem necessary and would only make her pull away, which would not bode well for an accurate painting. So, gently, he takes hold of her forearm and he hopes that she might be thankful that his hands weren't cold.

He does not wish to invade her personal space, but touch was important in order to know what to paint. His thumb rubs against her skin, and he studies her face as he does so to grab a sense of what she was comfortable with. The other hand dips the brush into the herbal paint and he starts with central dots along the middle of the underside of her arm. Instead of the paint feeling cold (despite the chill of Coruscant), it would feel warm.

❝ Tell me, Brienne. What do you do to relax? How do bring enjoyment into your life? ❞

     Charming, she would say of the little house trinket she holds. If flipped upside down, its rounded rooftop would fit perfectly in the palm of her hand. A small abode, and if scaled up, just enough for one person or perhaps two. Maybe a family could live comfortably within if need be. Brienne does not come from a background of tiny houses; hers are grand estates and penthouse suites. 

     The seller takes her arm, making two points of contact: his hand and the brush. Again, she feels a bit daft for allowing it. Why is it so hard to say no? At least the ink and his fingers are not cold against her barely tepid skin.

     “To relax?” Discerning gaze, intent on watching the brush work, blinks up at him. Her first thought is returning home, making a cup of herbal tea, and pouring a hot bath, but somehow that feels too intimate to share with just anyone. It’s also as if that solitary and quiet existence is only for her to know. Rather, she considers her social persona, the heiress in her.

"I believe you." He says, in the end. He adds no theatrics to it: it's simply the truth. Whatever the truth might be, she does believe what she's saying, and that is enough.

"Alright. I'm going to help you." He decides. "For now, at the very least. Let's figure out why there is a bounty on you. Step by step." He offers.

He's lowering his voice, and he's shifting his posture, and he has inhabited the Jedi diplomat for so long that the register is natural now. He hopes it will help.

"Can you show me your accounts? We can start by checking nobody has used your name for something illegal. Sometimes they post the bounties by tracking the accounts, and they don't check further." He offers her.

     Tension tenting her brows lessen a modicum, only to be replaced by another layer of disbelief when offering to help. When is someone’s word enough these days? And enough that he would offer assistance? Nothing is free, a truism spoken well beyond her money-focused home planet. When he asks to see her accounts, suspicion clenches her rapidly beating chest. She just professed her wealth, and maybe he wants to know how wealthy she is. 

     Long lashes blink, and sight dips again to the dimmed screen of the datapad. You’re alone with a very dangerous man, Brienne. He can kill you if he wants to. What options do you have? None. “Well, I,” she starts with a whisper, frowning a moment in her despair. “I have quite a few. Two private banking accounts, four investment and brokerage accounts,” she pauses. The rich stay rich by having their credits work for more credits. “And uh, some credit market accounts, but they’re currently locked. It can’t be those.”

This is not a bad thing, in his eyes, even if it makes some situations more complex.

"Many of us are diplomats." He explains. Curiosity is not something he feels offended by, not when it's well-meant, and when he does not sense malice. And then, considering it, and letting the considering show, he speaks again. "And while there are dedicated scholars among our number, nowadays we are mostly focused on the war effort."

Which is, he believes, unfortunate, and which he will not discuss in detail.

     The war effort pulls in people from all sectors and professions. Despite Aargau’s professed neutrality in the war, even Brienne feels its tug in the fluctuating markets, concerned clients needing reassurance about the security of their financial assets, and her own safety when traveling. It is the war effort also that makes her cognizant of the Jedi. Their activities make holonews headlines.

     “If my poorly-conceived questions do not make my answer obvious.” Brienne muses apologetically, her chin dipping as she acknowledges her ignorance. “But no, I have not. I’m rather new to Coruscant, and it's unlikely to cross a Jedi’s path at home.” The diversity of the ecumenopolis is something the young banker is slowly growing accustomed to; there are so many different species in one place that every day she encounters something or someone new.