#event001.

Narcissa was, by all definitions of the word, in her element. The darling daughter, the beautiful, unattainable statue of a girl that she was, floating through the party on a high that only came from nonstop attention. Her ballgown kept people just far enough away, the gloves she wore made to keep people from touching her even if they were to shake her hand. It was perfect. Sipping from a wine glass, she glided over to where Evan stood. “Evan, Darling, looking absolutely crisp this evening,” she said. “Very well put together, the only thing is that... bit of drool there,” teased Narcissa. “She looks quite stunning tonight, doesn’t she?” An olive branch, so that he might be able to openly compliment his love. “You may want to pick up your jaw before someone less perceptive than myself catches on.” 

During the announcement.

Osira feels that something is wrong before she hears it. She’s never been to Jedha, but the names Bail & Leia Organa make something go tight in her chest. Being with rebellion as long as she has, she knows those names well, knows how important they are. She isn’t a fighter. She’s never been a fighter. But her lightsaber hangs heavy at her hip. She is a Knight now, one of the few left with training in lightsaber combat, and a gift for renewing other’s strength. The emotions of the rebel base wash over her, and something tells her has to go. They ask for volunteers, and she raises a shaky hand.

During the extraction.

She stands in the crowd, only meant to be backup, to offer support if things go south. The crowd thrums with emotion, tension building and building, anger and fear, so much of it, all pointed in the same direction. Osira’s hands ball into fists. She cannot meditate here, cannot do anything but be swept away by the waves of feeling. The crowd wants to scream - she wants to scream - instead, she whispers.

“What if you’re wrong?”

She doesn’t mean to say it; it just falls from her lips like an exhale, giving life to the thing so many around her feel. And then the whisper begins to echo through the crowd, begins to get louder. She presses her hands to her mouth, she hadn’t meant for this. But it’s too late, the dam is breaking. She feels it, watches it - the anger building, the tension rising - whispers turning to shouts.

And then, the sound of blaster fire, of lightsabers igniting, of civilians shouting. And then, chaos.

Aftermath.

With shaking hands and a pounding heart, Osira finds herself back on the ship, horrified at what has happened. She should never have come. She should have known. The dread and fear of the New Order seeps into her bones - knowing they’ve been found, that their faces are known - but even they are overcome by an emotion all her own. Guilt. She does what she always does, she goes to those most tired, offering any strength she can. But her hands tremble. She speaks in whispers. She doesn’t dare look her fellow rebels in the eye.

A loose outline of what Osira’s been thinking, feeling, and doing during the first event. Either like this post so I can reach out to you or send me a message (either here or on discord) if you’d like to get a thread going!

 she found raf easily, a head taller than most of the people at the after party, pulling his hand and prepared to drag him away if she had to. “ra-fa-el,” nahla drawled, refusing to use the shorter version of his name, “face of the fight game. not going to lie, i was rather hoping you would be incarcerated in italy and i could bail you out and further cement your dependence on my wit and charm and all that album sales money. don’t you dare say one of your fights is worth two billion times the value of one of my streams, i’m very mean when you piss me off.” she paused, but only for a second. “get up, you’re dancing with me whether you like it or not.”