#dibeediboop

I’m always split between feelings on my master, the Empress, but one thing I must admit - she knows how to put together a banquet. Half of Kaas City’s nobility must’ve been invited, and a whole host of other Sith Lords. I could close my eyes and sense the danger everywhere, caught in concealed blades and casually-belted lightsabers. Too many of them are close to my Empress, more than I’m comfortable with, but of course, it’s a banquet. And I’m not to “cause a scene”.

“If I’m unable to draw attention to your danger,” I’d snapped at her as I was laced into my dress for the event, “How am I supposed to protect you?”

“I’m confident in your abilities, my Wrath,” she drawled with a lace-covered hand smoothing over my cheek and down my jaw. “And after all, what a challenge it would be to prove that you remain elegant yet destructive? Yes, no scenes - everything must be as graceful and poised as you and I.”

I scowled but didn’t resist, not even when she stopped me from collecting my lightsabers. If I had to use the Force alone to stop others from causing my Empress harm, I would. It wasn’t as if I was helpless without blades, and the Force was still strong in my bones. Even now, leaning against a table with a flute of champagne in hand, I can feel Its presence in my body like a steady hum. Part of it keeps me calm like I need. The other keeps every sense alert.

My eyes drag over the crowd. All sorts of purebloods in delicate robes and refined attire, while many humans and zabrak dressed in their finest suits and dresses. Not many to take interest in. A few ratattaki, an interesting Chiss who I could sense had the Force . . . and then there was him.

I’d kept my eye on him all night, and I knew he knew.

I don’t know his name, at least not yet. I knew he was male, of course, judging by a little scene just minutes before where somebody had called him “she” and had been . . . properly adjusted. Men never fascinated me, none except for a lonely captain locked in my head, but oh, was he ever captivating. A female’s body, with long hair in precious coppers echoing the Empress’s. Draped in sheer silk in deep blacks and reds, dipping so low I wondered if he’d slip and expose his breast - perhaps he’d sensed the thought, for I could see him smiling to himself as it came up. He seems distracted enough, speaking with a fellow Sith, but I can sense the antsiness of his mind. Something preoccupying indeed.

There are many minds in the room like his, uneasy and taut, but it is him I am interested in. His hair, his body, his smooth voice I can hear over the crowd. I tap at my flute and push my lips against the delicate rim. His eyes slide away from his conversation partner, and they meet mine, for only an instant. My raised brow is calculating, but his quick and almost unnerving smile seems to ignore it. He looks radiant, even as he looks back to his friend, and continues with hardly a show of it. As if our gazes hadn’t touched.

How ridiculous.

My Empress didn’t call for a scene, and so I wouldn’t create one. But instead, I put down my flute - emptied of its champagne - and I finally pushed myself off of the table’s edge, and I hold the Sith’s eyes as I step towards him.

The Sith raises his hand to his coversation partner, and pushes him away. He turns his full body towards me, full of grace and poise, as I make my way through the crowd towards him.

No scenes, she’d said - but perhaps I could catch an . . . instance.