Public Onderon: The Day of the Fallen Leaves

[Rann Thress]

​

TAGS: Open!

Onderon never changes.​

Doesn’t matter what flag flies in town square, doesn’t matter what nations threaten to engulf the planet, doesn’t matter who the people call their Monarch. The rebellious spirit of Onderon, the people, the culture, the city never changes.

And that spirit was on full display today.

The Day of the Fallen Leaves, a thousands upon thousands of years old Onderonian tradition that was founded when they cast off the Mandalorians during the times of the Old Republic. A holiday that symbolized the end of Onderon’s oppression. One that, given the proximity of a new Mandalorian Crusade and Mandalorians being spotted on the Dxun moon, really garnered a new sense of appreciation from the people.

In the city of Iziz, the people danced and music blared. While you had your club-like dancing, in designated areas of the festival a more mosh-like style of dance was quickly gaining traction, as the music became louder.
Onderon exists as a challenge, an invitation. It wasn’t too long ago the streets of Iziz saw Imperial banners flying in the streets and firing squads shooting down civilians as a demonstration. Onderon celebrated The Day Of The Fallen Leaves when they left.
That was a party Rann remembered fondly. One he went to with his son who fought for Onderons freedom. As the damage was repaired, the dead counted and buried, Onderonians celebrated their freedom again. It was more of a jovial affair. One that saw a clan of friendly Mandalorians led by Jenn Kryze take up arms to help. defend the planet. Strange bedfellows, Mandalorians and Onderonians.

As Rann sat at a bar, thinking about the recent developments and watching as the people slowly began to be absorbed into this special occasion, he smiled, downing his drink and asking for another. The energy was infectious. The people had smiles, the people were happy.

“Another,” Rann ordered, setting his now empty glass down, and grabbing it again as the bartender filled it, drinking it steadily as he continued to observe the festival.

“One for the history books, huh?” A drunken bystander asked, bumping into Rann. Rann turned to him, threw his arm over the man, and clinked glasses together, “Absolutely! A night to never forget!” The two laughed together, and shared a drink. The air was filled with laughter, serenity. An acceptance. Because it doesn’t matter what flag flies in town square, doesn’t matter what nations threaten to engulf the planet, doesn’t matter who the people call their Monarch.

Onderon never changes.​

 

[Rann Thress]

​

TAGS: Open!

As the night continued, the populace of Iziz continued their party, several people, strangers, gathered together in groups and started interacting with eachother.

Rann and his drunken new friend stumbled their way into one such group.

“Eeeeeeeeeeey!” The jovial fellow drunkards raised their glasses, welcoming the two, who responded in kind with a harmonious “Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey!” A ceremonial clinking of glasses and drinking of alcohol symbolized the welcoming of new friends.

“S’whatcha think? Think the Manalorians will attack?” One of them drunkenly asked. Rann chuckled and shrugged, taking a drink, “Manalorians, huh? The ones on the moon? I hope not, no. We don’t have the best track record with invasions. Manalorian, or Mandalorian,” they all shared a drunken laugh, “What about Imperials ey? I hear Sith are makin’ a fuss again, think they’ll come back? Or..like Sith Mandos? Sandos? Imperialorians?” Rann laughed, “Let’s make a bet huh? Wardroids or Star destroyers. Which will grace our skies first.” They all shared another laugh, “That’s something to bet on, yea! But I bet our own savior Mandos will be there to beat em' back too!"

All of a sudden, in an incredibly dramatic and somber voice, one asked, “Do you think Onderon will ever conquer the galaxy?” He held a hand to his chest, closing his eyes. “Pffbt hell no. We do our best work when we lose,” another responded, raising their glass.
“Bit weird thing to cheers ey?” Rann raised his glass, “S’history is all. We lose. S’alright to lose. We win eventually. We always do.” “Hell I’ll drink to that, my friend!” Another clink of glasses, another laugh, and another cheer.

​

​

 

[Serina Calis]

Onderon: The Day of Fallen Leaves
Location: Onderon
Objective: Establish Relations with Locals
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Rann Thress

"Rebellion and rum, a match made in hell."​

The shadows of Iziz glowed amber and violet, lit by the pulsing lights of celebration and streaked with the long, golden arms of dusk. Beneath its alabaster towers, the streets choked with music and mischief, that seductive hum of bodies pressed together, of songs rising in waves only to crash into the thunder of raucous dancing. Onderon was aflame—not with war or rebellion, but with life. With spirit. With defiance.

She tasted it on the air.

Serina sat perched on the ledge of a second-floor balcony, her legs crossed leisurely, one boot dangling over the side. The veil of her disguise remained intact—an elaborate hood draped over her crown, hiding her striking features in elegant shadow. Her robes were flowing, dark violet trimmed with gold, veiled enough to pass as noble yet common enough to escape scrutiny. The mask that shielded her eyes shimmered subtly in the neon hues of the festival fires below, refracting the revelry through slits like serpentine eyes. And in her gloved hand, she held a slender crystal glass of Chandrilan wine, the deep red liquid catching the firelight like fresh blood.

She sipped it slowly, lips pursed around the glass like a lover whispering secrets.

Her gaze slid across the square, hunting. Observing. Feeding. There—clusters of men and women tangled in dances that left little to the imagination. There—musicians swaying with their instruments like conjurers in a trance. And there, below her, them: the gathering of drunken souls who had declared themselves philosophers and prophets for the night, all too eager to drown wisdom in local spirits.

One in particular—Rann as they called him—caught her attention. He moved with the ease of a man shaped by loss and battle but unbroken by it. His laugh was real. It vibrated in the air like a challenge to fate itself. There was something beautiful about that. Something she could ruin.

Serina let her tongue flick across her lip, catching the last trace of wine, and leaned forward slightly, her posture indulgent, deliberate. The fabric of her robes slipped just enough to expose one bare thigh through a carefully orchestrated opening, catching the eye of a passing drunk who very nearly dropped his drink. She smiled beneath the mask.

She loved Onderon.

Not for its nobility. Not for its rebellions. She loved it because it lied so beautifully to itself. The illusion of freedom. The pride of survivors who danced not because they had won—but because they had not yet lost. It was a masquerade of resilience. A playground for someone like her.

Her eyes returned to the little drunken roundtable of revelers. Their speech was half slur, half poetry.

"S'history is all. We lose. S'alright to lose. We win eventually. We always do."

That line.

She whispered it back to herself, the taste of it electric on her tongue. "We always do."

Serina tipped her wine toward them from above, a silent, mocking toast.

How very hopeful of you.

Another sip. The wine burned now, not in flavor, but in memory. Chandrila. Her home. Her cage. She had stolen this bottle from the cellar of her parents about a year ago, on the night she prepared their demise.

She watched Rann throw his arm around a stranger, watched the swarm of camaraderie grow around him like ivy. And in her heart, the darkness stirred. That twisted, sensuous hunger that wanted to unravel all of it. Not out of malice—but out of art. Out of desire. To take something whole and teach it the pleasure of being broken.

She would descend eventually. Not yet. The hunter does not pounce while the prey still dances.

But when she did, she would be someone else. The charming foreigner. The lost noblewoman. The mysterious lover. She would let them find her. She always did.

And when Rann raised his glass again, when he laughed too loudly and looked up just long enough to catch a glimpse of a figure above, with bare skin in firelight and a glass raised in secret toast—he would not remember why she seemed familiar. But he would feel something.

Serina drank deeply. The festival raged below.
Onderon never changes.

And she was going to love tearing it apart.

 

[Rann Thress]

TAGS: Serina Calis
​

The bond of the drunken stranger, not at all a uniquely Onderon experience, was one Rann enjoyed embracing and not one he embraced as often as he’d liked. It never was proper, and he never felt…safe. But now? Being here, on his homeworld surrounded by his people? Come what may, he would enjoy himself.

After another round of drunken cheers, Rann excused himself, “Alright fellas. I’m gonna go grab myself a new bottle, and see what other trouble I can find, huh?” He clinked his now empty glass against theirs individually, “Yer all gentlemen and scholars, all o’ya. True patriots of Onderon and I love you,” with his exit made, Rann walked, almost steadily, towards the bar.

All of a sudden a feeling entered his mind. He furrowed his brow and stopped dead in his tracks. The feeling was akin to an alarm underwater. He could tell there was…something. More a dull blur, a gray blob. Something was there to be noticed from somewhere. But with a shrug of his shoulders, he cast the feeling aside.

“Come what may,” he said to himself as he leaned against the bar, tapping his robotic right arm against the hastily constructed bartop.

“Heya Barkeep. Gimme a uh… What do you recommend?” The bartender looked at him, raising a brow, “I’d recommend the most expensive one,” he responded with a chuckle, “How about a Beastmaster’s brew?” Rann countered, chuckling back and tossing a credit on the bar, met with a stone mug filled with a dark liquid. Rann picked it up and brought the mug to his lips, taking a long drink. He was met with a deep, rich flavor that screamed Onderon. A blend of local fruits and spice only found on Onderon. “They don’t make drinks like this out in the Galaxy,” he said quietly to himself, staring at the mug before setting it down and turning back around to the festival.

Rann clicked his tongue, furrowing his brow again as he brought the stone mug back to his lips and took another deep drink of the ale. He raised his eyes, looking around, as the distant, muffled feeling came back. He tried to find the source of the feeling, scanning the crowd. He cast his glance upwards and spied a woman in a mask, locking eyes. He smiled, raising his glass to the woman before taking another drink and looking elsewhere.

People of all kind tonight for the Fallen Leaves.

 

[Vivia Rompdew1]

A pair of Jedi, both clad in armor, appear out of thin air, dueling. One, a middle aged human male wearing a silvery mandalorian looking chestplate wielding a blue lightsaber, and the other a younger female echani with crimson hair and arctic blue skin in golden armour. She wielded an orange lightsaber, as orange as geonosis. as the duel continued, bystanders ran in fear. The man was on the backfoot. he was using form III, but it was obvious that it wasn't his usual form, as he was forced onto the defensive. The woman however, seemed to be a jack of all trades, switching between multiple forms, though mainly using form V to overpower her opponent. The man missed a block, and the woman sliced his throat, killing him instantly. The echani breathed heavily as she took the man's lightsaber.

The echani, named Vivia Rompdew sensed something was wrong. You see, in her time, the force was dominated by light, yet now she sensed it was more even. She was on the outskirts of a city, so she carefully walked towards the center, trying to figure out where she was. It was obvious that there was some sort of celebration going on. By asking around she learned that she was in the city of Iziz on the planet of Onderon. She found a robe and donned it in case anyone recognized her armor and was hostile. She found a tavern and entered, immediately sensing something strange, something undescribable, as well as a force user who's allignment was grey. She looked around and identified the sources of the sensations. The unaffiliated force user was a human male with brownish grey hair. the other, hidden presence was that of a woman in a mask, who wore golden and purple robes, almost royal looking. The whole situation made her uneasy. What were the odds that she would just happen to bump into 2 other force users, right after she finished a fight with a third? Not very high at all. And especially considering that the woman was hiding her identity, Vivia needed to be extra careful.

But right then, she needed to find out what was wrong with the force. she had an idea, but she didn't want to confirm it. It was too frightening, even for a Jedi Battlemaster. She considered asking the force sensitive man why the force was balanced now, but she figured it was too risky. She eventually mustered up the courage to ask the bartender the question she already knew the answer to.

"Bartender" she breathed heavily,
"What year is it?"
"917 ABY. Why....?"
He answered her, and confirmed her fear. Though she did not know what the year notation he used meant, she knew that she was a long way from home. Not through just through space, but through time as well. She knew the world between worlds was rumored to be a sort of lobby for different places and times, but she didn't want to believe that she had travelled through spacetime, away from her friends and... Maya. She could try to go back to the temple on Lothal and go back to her time, but there was no guaruntee that the temple had been built yet, or that it hadn't been destroyed. if so, she would need to find another means to get back. She wiped away a tear, and asked the bartender,
"What's ABY stand for?"
"After the battle of Yavin of course! What, ya been frozen in carbonite for a millenium?" he chuckled. At least a millenium. Damn.
"Sorry I just need... I just need a..." She puked all over the ground, then began panicking, thoughts racing through her head
"Whoa... can I... can I help ya lassie?"
"No I'm fine, I just need a moment" She turned to the door and was about to go outside and begin using the strategies her master taught her to deal with her anxiety. Sit with it and remember that anxiety thoughts are just that, thoughts.

 

[Serina Calis]

Onderon: The Day of Fallen Leaves
Location: Onderon
Objective: Establish Relations with Locals
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Rann Thress

"Rebellion and rum, a match made in hell."​

Her fingers trailed lazily along the lip of her glass, circling it in slow, sensual rhythm as the sound of Rann's voice curled through the crowd like a silken thread, tugging at her attention with each drunken word. She didn't need the Force to sense his warmth, his joy, his flickering disbelief that he felt… safe. It was written in every sway of his step, every careless chuckle and over-eager toast.

Serina inhaled deeply, the wine beneath her nose a poor substitute for the intoxicant that danced across the square. Not alcohol—vulnerability.

She rose.

Her movements were deliberate, each step down from the balcony as fluid and measured as the glide of honey over warm stone. The crowd parted instinctively, as if sensing something beneath the surface of her stride, something predatory wrapped in velvet. Her robes whispered against her legs, trailing behind her like sin made silk, brushing softly across the flagstones still warm from the sun. Her hood remained up, her face masked, but her presence? Unmissable.

She passed between bodies caught in passion and chaos, men and women lost in celebration, and yet each one faltered slightly as she passed—heads turning without reason, lips forgetting their words, glances stolen like forbidden sweets. The Force, even dulled in her passive state, rippled out like pheromones. Temptation incarnate.

And there—leaning against the bar with his stone mug and half-nostalgic smile—stood her mark.

Rann.

He was handsome, in that rugged, weary way. All scars and stubble and that worn-in kind of charisma that made a woman want to find out what hurt him and hurt it more. And that mechanical arm… ah, it gleamed in the firelight like an invitation. A man rebuilt by pain.

Perfect.

She approached with the pace of inevitability, her gaze never leaving his, her mask glinting faintly with every flicker of the torchlight. As she neared, the music around them seemed to dull—not from volume, but relevance. Every note, every shout, every drunken cheer became irrelevant against the rhythm she brought with her.

When she reached him, she didn't speak. Not immediately. Instead, she leaned one elbow on the bar beside him, close enough to brush against his arm, close enough to let him feel the heat of her breath as it ghosted past her mask. Her scent—something exotic and not quite identifiable—folded around him like a cloak. She tilted her head, studying him. Her fingers curled around her wineglass like a lover's hand.

Finally, her voice came, smooth and honeyed, each syllable dipped in velvet and sin.

"You wear that smile like it's never been stolen."

She let it hang in the air, her tone soft enough to tease, deep enough to command attention. Her eyes, half-lidded behind the mask, glimmered with dangerous mirth.

"Rare, these days. Rarer still in men with iron limbs and wandering eyes."

She turned slightly, letting the soft fall of her robe pull just enough to reveal a strip of bare skin along her waist, a glimpse so perfectly timed it couldn't possibly be accidental. Her hand brushed the bar in front of him, trailing a finger toward his mug, tracing the condensation.

"Onderon's proud tonight," she murmured. "But pride," her finger tapped the rim of his drink, "can't warm a bed."

Her lips curved, not in a smile but in something older, something invitingly cruel.

"You seem the type to drink to things you don't say aloud." Her gaze lifted to his. "Care to share one?"

She let the question hang, her body close enough that a heartbeat felt like a drumroll. She didn't push. Not yet. The game had begun, and she always played the long one.

The city roared behind them, lights and song and the promise of something eternal. But here, at this little pocket of warmth and shadow, Serina Calis spun a different kind of celebration—one that tasted of corruption, of seduction, of a thousand unsaid things whispered in the dark.

 

[Rann Thress]

TAGS: Serina Calis

Rann savored his drink in solitude, the dark brew sliding smoothly down his throat as he quietly sipped from the stone mug. After a moment, he set it back down on the bartop, turning away from the bustling party behind him to enjoy the peaceful ambience. He didn't immediately pay attention to the presence drawing closer, not until her voice broke through the rambunctious noise.

"You wear that smile like it's never been stolen."

Rann turned his head to the masked woman, observing her with a raised eyebrow.

Can you steal from yourself?

"Rare, these days. Rarer still in men with iron limbs and wandering eyes."

He let out a chuckle then raised his hand to his eyes observing it and the history it had, the history he had, before returning his gaze to his new drinking buddy just in time for his eyes to wander down, catching sight of her bare skin, before raising his eyes again.

"You've got a way with words, don'tcha?" Rann said, pulling a corner of his mouth up into a half-smile. "I don't think my smile's ever been stolen. Just... bargained away for a time." He glanced over his shoulder at the lively party behind him, his thoughts briefly drifting. Onderon's proud tonight, he mused, watching the people of Iziz revel in their own little world. Turning back around, he raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued as he watched the stranger begin to familiarize herself with his mug, her intentions unreadable.

"You seem the type to drink to things you don't say aloud." Her gaze lifted to his. "Care to share one?"

He tilted his head in thought, letting out a "hmm" as he pondered his response. “What a question. What a deep question."
Rann took another generous swig of his drink, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve and gestured toward the crowd. "That's a deeper question than I expected tonight," he said, smiling warmly. "Usually, it's a bit more... eh, grandstanding philosophies." He laughed, recalling the conversation he had had previously.
He fell into a moment of quiet contemplation, his gaze fixed ahead as if imagining something just out of sight. He raised his mug melodramatically as if preparing to speak, then smiled and set it aside. "I don't say aloud the things I don't drink aloud to," he said with a self-amused laugh.

"What about you?" he asked, his gaze sweeping the square as he searched for any others wearing masks, wondering if this was some pattern he'd failed to notice. "You're not from Onderon. I think that's for sure." He glanced down at her clothes once more, studying her sense of style before his eyes shifted back to the crowd.

Aside from a few eccentrics, everyone, himself included, wore plain, unassuming clothing, the kind typical of Onderon. At another time, he thought, he might've dressed similarly to her. Of course, with far less skin showing. On a day like this, Rann preferred to keep a low profile, drawing as little attention to himself as possible. This woman, much to her credit, did not share that philosophy. "You like to make a statement, huh?" he said, studying her with a raised brow. "Not one to blend into the crowd." He gave a nod, a hint of reverence in his tone. "I respect that."

The dull presence in the Force lingered, like a painting behind frosted glass. Just enough to make him question her true intentions. He did not know what she knew about him, if she knew anything at all, and he knew that he knew nothing about her. That needed to change.


"I'm Rann, by the way," he said, nodding and offering a half smile. "Might I have the pleasure of your name, miss?"

 

[Vivia Rompdew1]

Vivia managed to calm herself down, to a degree at least, but then her anxiety went up again because she had a question. Was she in the future, or the past? Were she in the future, then how come the force was balanced? Had Darth Nosnum predicted the future? Did the Sith rise up to fight the Jedi, and if so, why? If she was in the past, what if she accidentally erased herself and created a paradox? She managed to calm down again, and she decided to get more information on where she was in time. She decided to go back into the tavern to ask questions and to keep an eye on the 2 force sensitives. She walked in and immediately noticed that the 2 were sitting next to each other, and the woman was talking to the man. Feeling that either the man, herself, or someone else was in danger, she tried to listen in on their conversation.

 

[Vivia Rompdew1]

She gathered that the woman was attempting to seduce the man. A million red flags went up in he mind, and she considered intervening, but no, best to keep her distance. Vivia asked the bartender,
"Where can I find historical information?"
"I think what you need is some rest. And lay off the alchohol"
"I haven't ordered a single drink"
"I bet you got one from Hali on the other side of the block"
"Do I look drunk?" He stopped and thought. Though her words indicated intoxication, her body and mannerisms didn't. Maybe she really had been frozen in carbonite for 1000 years.
"There's a library a few blocks east of here" He said finally.
"Thank you very much, sir", And with that, she left the bustling tavern, although she constantly looked over her shoulder in case someone was following. But no one was following. In fact people seemed to steer clear of her. The news of her sudden appearance and killing of another force user seemed to spread quickly. She kept a low profile, and made her way to the library. when she got in, she immediatly used the computer to search for history datapads pretaining to the Sith and the Jedi. She found an extensive digital encyclopedia of Jedi and Sith lore. She learned fairly quickly that her time was a time called the Republic Dark Age, and what she knew as 103 ARR was now known as 897 BBY, before the Battle of Yavin. Then she skipped ahead a bit to learn about this "Battle of Yavin". It was a battle between the 1st Galactic Empire and the Rebel Alliance to destroy something called "The Death Star". Charming name. But hold on, what was this "1st Galactic Empire", and why did people rebel against them? She flipped back a page and a heading caught her eye. "The Rule of 2 And The 2nd Jedi purge". She was afraid to read the passage but she read it anyway, and what she found shocked her.

The Jedi had fought in yet another war, but their army betrayed them, and they were defeated by the Sith, who plunged the galaxy into darkness. And the Sith defeated them through staying in the shadows and manipulating politics, and by using the rule of 2. She fell to her knees. Vivia thought she had been the reason the Jedi were defeated by the Sith. She had fought both the Sith of her time and she managed to kill one, but she choose not to expose or kill the other. And that other Sith became her friend. At least she thought he was her friend. Darth Nosnum promised to reform the Sith and only use them as a failsafe if the Jedi became corrupt. but as she read, it was clear that the Jedi had not become corrupt, at least not very much, and the Sith took over for personal gain. She found a list of all the Rule of 2 Sith and she flipped through it, hoping with all her heart that Nosnum had not betrayed her. Eventually she found the evidence she wanted. Darth Nosnum had indeed tried to reform the Sith, but his apprentice's apprentice's apprentice brought the Sith back to their old ways. She breathed a sigh of relief and tried to find the fate of her and her friends, to no avail. She found a footnote, a mere footnote, mentioning her contributions in the Tython war, all she did was now just a footnote in almost forgotten history. She knew this day would eventually come, but she didn't expect to experience it for herself. She searched a galactic map in the library to see if the temple on Lothal was still intact. It wasn't. She would have to find another way back home. She knew there were ways, but not what they were. Having found as much information as she could, she went back to the tavern to continue keeping an eye on the 2 force users.

 

[Serina Calis]

Onderon: The Day of Fallen Leaves
Location: Onderon
Objective: Establish Relations with Locals
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Rann Thress

"Rebellion and rum, a match made in hell."​

He was charming.

Not in the polished, courtly way of princes or diplomats—no, Rann was the kind of charming forged in the fires of scars and silence. The kind that smelled of smoke, tasted like old metal, and wore his wounds without apology. Serina adored that kind of man. They were always so close to becoming something... else. Something beautiful. Something broken.

Her mask tilted as she listened, as he spoke in riddles and half-truths like any good survivor. There was a poetry to him, even in the way he waved his mug like it was a holy relic, refusing to confess to anything truly sacred.

A man like that didn't wear his heart on his sleeve—he kept it buried behind mechanical joints and the scent of spiced Onderonian brew.

Serina wanted to unearth it with her teeth.

She leaned closer, resting one elbow fully on the bar now, her posture relaxed but entirely intentional. Her body angled toward him with feline fluidity, and as he gave his name, she let her masked gaze linger—low, slow, and deliberate. Up his chest. Over his shoulders. Back to his eyes. The kind of look that had made wiser men stammer and stronger ones kneel.

"Rann," she repeated, the syllable rolling off her tongue like silk over a dagger. "A good name. Honest. Unpretentious. Heavy with old blood and older regrets."

She set her wineglass down at last, though not before letting her fingers slip along its stem with a softness that mimicked affection. Her hands, gloved in black mesh and velvet, brushed his arm—not quite a touch, more a whisper of intention.

"My name…" she began, voice low enough to hum beneath the music, "changes with my moods. And yours."

She let that statement hang in the air like smoke, watching him, watching the way his face might shift at her refusal. She savored that tiny moment of imbalance—because everything Serina Calis did was a game of balance and collapse.

But then, with a soft chuckle, as if granting him a morsel from the feast she withheld, she added:

"Tonight, you may call me Virelle." A lie, of course. But lies tasted better when they were dressed in truth. "Just a visitor. A daughter of velvet nights and candlelit chaos. I find myself drawn to places like this—loud places, defiant places."

Her gloved fingers drifted to the edge of his mug, trailing around it as if testing its heat. She leaned just enough that he could feel her breath through the mask—warm and sweet with wine, the scent of something spiced and floral underneath. Something expensive.

"I don't like to blend in," she admitted, her voice velvet-drenched. "I like to be noticed. I like to be remembered."

Her tone lowered slightly.

"I like to leave... marks."

She was close now. Close enough that her presence wrapped around him like a shawl—impossible to ignore, a softness laced with blades.

"Onderon celebrates tonight," she said, shifting slightly, the bare skin at her hip catching the firelight again, "and your people—they dance to remember freedom, or to forget chains. I never did understand the difference."

She tilted her head.

"But you, Rann. You drink to ghosts. I can taste it in your silence."

A pause.

Then, a soft murmur, intimate, like a prayer spoken in a confessional booth.

"Tell me something real. Something that would make your ghosts shiver. Or..." Her hand hovered, then touched his metal forearm, light and lingering. "...let me show you what forgetting feels like."

She didn't need the Force to play this game. The Force merely deepened the pit he stood near. But it was her words, her voice, her touch—her presence—that would invite him to fall in.

And when he did, he would fall with a smile.

 

[Rann Thress]

TAGS: Serina Calis

Rann clicked his tongue and turned his entire body to face her, resting his mechanical arm on the bar as he contemplated her answer.

“What a way to start a relationship,” he said with a chuckle, “Telling me you’re likely lying about your name?” He shrugged his shoulders and tapped on the bar, “Gimme another, Bartender!” He flashed a smile, then dug into his pocket for another credit before tossing it on the bartop, an exchange met with another mug of Beastmaster’s.

“Fair, yeah. Tell you the truth, most days I’m dressed fancy too but…” he shrugged then continued, “not tonight. Tonight was supposed to be the night I wasn’t particularly noticed, yet here we are.” He chuckled, “And you want to be remembered? How does that work with, probably, a fake name and a mask?”
Rann shrugged a shoulder again, "Ah well, suppose that's not my business, is it?" He took another drink, smacking his lips as he savored the fragrant taste of the local drink,
“What are you drinking tonight, huh? Anything special?” He eyed her with a knowing smirk. “You’re a wine girl, I can tell. Ain’tcha? No one dresses fancy like that and drinks swill like this.” He tapped a metal finger against the rim of his stone mug, producing a light clang. “Not unless you’re from here. I usually don’t drink this stuff, but it’s different when it comes from home.” He took another sip.

“I’ll tell ya a little story, though.” His voice dipped into something almost nostalgic. For a moment, he lingered in thought, his mind drifting back to Gerwald Lechner . “Long, long time ago, I was in…” He blinked, then shook his head with a smile. “Eh. Not important.” He exhaled, then grinned. “Anyway, there was this guy. Big man.” His expression softened as he closed his eyes, shaking his head in respect. “Great hair. And even better taste in wine.” he chuckled softly “We had a bit of a falling out. Harsh words were said… and I may have stolen his one-of-a-kind bottle of Tarul Wine.” He smirked, swirling the last remnants of his drink. “I don’t even know if he ever noticed it was missing, actually.” He took a final sip, shrugging. “Oh well.”

He watched as she touched his arm, his eyebrow lifting in amused confusion. "You a spy or something? Trying to get state secrets?" His tone was light, but beneath it, a noticeable discomfort. "Unless you’re here specifically to track down who stole that wine, I got nothin’ for ya."
He paused, measuring his response. That nagging feeling, the one that had been lingering just out of focus, began to sharpen. The distant alarm bell in his mind rang clearer now, and Rann set his drink down. His eyes narrowed slightly as if he was studying her but his smile remained constant. Even as the feeling of unease persisted, he held her gaze.
"What's your story, huh? Virelle." He deliberately emphasized her name, making no effort to hide an audible distrust.
"You're more than just a visitor, ‘course." His gaze went past her over to the sea of people. He raised his arm, gesturing toward the crowd, the countless hundreds in sight, just a fraction of the thousands gathered here.
"Out of all the people here…" His eyes snapped back to hers, the warmth in his voice cooling.

"You came to me."

His smile faded. His expression hardened. And for the first time, he truly looked at her.

“Why.”

 

[Vivia Rompdew1]

Vivia walked back to the tavern to find 2 Jedi, a quarren and a twi'lek, walking to the tavern as well. She felt relieved, as thankfully she sensed the warmth of the light side in them. She sensed that she could take both of them in a fight, not that she thought she needed to, but she hid her own power in the force just to make talking to be on the safe side. She walked up to them, and they immediatly grabbed their lightsabers, although without turning them on.
"I come in peace, and with a warning"
"We're here to investigate a duel, which involved someone who looks exactly like you"
"I came here from the world between worlds. I'm from 2000 years ago and I can prove it"
"Yeah... we're gonna need to confiscate your lightsaber"
"That won't be necessary" She said as she shot yellow lightning, known as force judgment from her fingertips into the air. You see this power was only accessible to light side users, or rather the dark side had a different version of it. The Jedi did not put away their weapons.
"I'm the Jedi Battlemaster from the Tython war, I came here through a place called the world between worlds, and I believe there is a Sith plot involving Onderon"
"Sure"
"Ask your archivists for a picture of Jedi Battlemaster Vivia Rompdew, you'll find she looks exactly like me"
"What if you're a changeling?"
"Fair, but it would take a lot of effort to get this" She said as she ignited her orange blade, and the Jedi ignited their green and blue blades. Orange was the 2nd rarest lightsaber color, right behind the one of a kind darksaber. The people in the tavern all heard it, and the 2 force users immediatly recognized the unmistakable sound of lightsabers igniting. Once the Jedi realized she meant no harm, the quarren took out his comlink to contact the temple on Onderon and ask for a picture of Vivia Rompdew.

 

[Serina Calis]

Onderon: The Day of Fallen Leaves
Location: Onderon
Objective: Establish Relations with Locals
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Rann Thress

"Rebellion and rum, a match made in hell."​

The tension—ah, there it was. That delectable shift in the air when a man starts to sense that something more than flirtation is at play. When the game turns sharp, and the hunter realizes his quarry might have teeth of her own.

Serina loved this part.

Her smile, though hidden behind the smooth obsidian of her mask, could be felt. Like heat rising off of coals. She did not flinch when his tone changed, did not recoil from the edge that crept into his voice. No—she leaned into it, luxuriated in the weight of his gaze as it truly saw her for the first time.

She let his question hang between them like smoke curling in the torchlight. Why?

Her gloved fingers curled around her wineglass once more, the dark red liquid within catching the light as she tilted it back—not to drink, but to observe the way it moved. Slow. Viscous. Like blood.

Then she spoke.

"I came to you," she said, her voice low and intimate, almost conspiratorial, "because everyone else here came to forget."

She set the glass down.

"But you? You came to remember."

She leaned forward now, and the movement was slow—intimate in a way that required no contact. Just presence. Her posture shifted slightly, her thigh brushing his knee beneath the bar, her voice dropping to a purr just above a whisper.

"And you wear that remembering like armor. Even under all this noise. This celebration. The drink. The jokes. You're holding onto something. And I..." her hand lifted, hovered near his chest, not touching but close enough that the implication lingered, "...I wanted to see what it was."

She let the words bleed into silence. Let them breathe. Her tone turned languid, sultry, soaked in suggestion.

"I'm no spy, Rann." She smiled, and though he couldn't see it, he'd feel it. "At least… not the kind that bothers with state secrets."

A pause. Then, with devastating softness:

"I'm the kind of spy that listens for desire."

Her fingers touched his again—deliberate now, no longer feather-light. The metal of his arm cold beneath her glove, the tension in his flesh arm taut like a drawn bowstring.

"Because that's where truth lives, Rann. Not in speeches or uniforms or oaths. It lives in want. In the things people ache for when they think no one's watching. In the glances they think go unnoticed. In the names they whisper when they're alone."

Her thumb brushed lightly along the edge of his hand. Her body remained still otherwise, but the heat between them became undeniable. Not aggressive. Not forceful. Just present.

"You feel it, don't you?" she asked, almost gently now. "The edge behind my words. The mask beneath the mask. You're not wrong to be cautious."

Her gaze locked onto his through the eye-slits of her mask, unwavering.

"But ask yourself this, Rann…" Her lips curled, just barely.

"When was the last time you wanted to be cautious?"

Another breath passed. Music played beyond them—cheers and laughter and dancing bodies moving in worship of freedom. And yet, here, at this corner of the bar, the air was thick with something entirely different.

"My story?" she echoed, reclining slightly now, fingers tracing back toward her wineglass like the closing act of a spell. "My story's not written in planetary registries or family trees. It's written in the moments where men like you lower your guard. It's written in rooms where promises are broken, where alliances are born between the sheets and behind the veils. I don't play for sides. I play for influence. I play for leverage. And I play to win."

Another sip. Still watching him. Still seeing him.

"You're not a fool, Rann. I didn't come for everyone." She smiled again, voice like smoke on silk.

"I came for the one man in this square who doesn't want to be remembered—because those are the ones history can't forget."

And in that moment, it was unclear whether she was seducing him… or summoning him.

 

[Rann Thress]

TAGS: Serina Calis

Rann narrowed his eyes, trying to force himself to sober up, to clear his mind. The feeling in the Force was still ever-present, the canary in the coal mine. Instinctively, Rann lowered his hand down to his waist only to be met with nothingness. Of course he hadn’t brought his Lightsaber. He hadn’t needed it, or so he thought. Perhaps he still didn’t but its absence would be sorely felt. Rann pursed his lips together, contemplating the proper move forward, when as if a light switch being flicked he broke into a low chuckle as he brought his hand up, pointing a finger at her and bobbing his hand as if emphasizing.

“You’re clever,” he said, bringing his hand to his chin, grooming his beard, taking a second to observe his surroundings. Around them, the energy of the crowds of the square continued. Music and lights, dancing and revelry were commonplace all throughout.

“You’re saying a lotta words, miss. A lot of…flowery language,” he bobbed his head up and down as he returned his attention to her, chuckling softly. “You're clever,” he repeated, then raised his eyebrows, nodding his head as he continued, “And dangerous. Not just a visitor,” he finished, turning back to the bar. Slowly, he dug down into his pocket and retrieved another credit chit, placing it down on the bar, “One more, bartender,” he ordered. It didn't take long past that for the bartender to place a fresh Beastmasters in front of him. It also didn't take long for him to snatch it up from the bar and take a drink before setting it back down. He sighed appreciatively at the taste and smacked his lips, his drunken state quickly acclimating him to the taste of the originally pungent brew. Rann leaned back on the bar, then chuckled once as he looked down before raising his gaze to look at her again.

Suddenly, or perhaps it had always been, the conversation turned into a game of Dejarik, and Virelle was winning. Where Rann hoped he had an advantage, however, is that he knew that. He measured his responses, contemplated what he’d say. Whatever she was really after, she wouldn’t get it from him, he thought. Was she here to kill him? Rob him? That’s really all that made sense, and damn it all he was without his lightsaber. The thought of how much better he’d feel if it were dangling from his waist was omnipresent in every other thought.

“Last time I wanted to be cautious is right now, for about…” he raised his eyes, searching his mind, thinking how long it’d been since he left his ship and lightsaber behind, “two…er…three hours. I wish now,” he said, tapping the bar top to make his point, “I was cautious then,” he tapped a different part of the bar.

“And you ain’t kiddin’ about the mask,” he said chuckling again as he picked up his mug and brought it to his mouth, “Even your words have masks,” he murmured into his stone mug as he took a deep drink and set it back down,

“May as well enjoy the drinks,” he said to himself, staring at the mug. After a moment of silent contemplation staring into the stone mug of the drink, he turned his gaze back to her, “If you play for influence,” he started, “you stand to gain none. Not from me ey?” he gestured widely to their surroundings, “Look at me, look where we are. My time in the sun’s long past, miss, if ever I was in it to begin with,” He leaned back against the bar, “Last time I mattered farther than the walls of this city I was your age, and the people I mattered to…Well,” he trailed off, picking up the mug and taking another sip. “They’re not here no more,” he clicked his tongue, exhaling slowly.

“I will tell you what, though,” he pointed at her again, “You got me pegged perfect. I don’t want to be remembered,” he admitted, picking up his drink and finishing it off, “it’s just probably not for the…uh,” he set the empty mug back down, unable to contain a satisfied burp out the side of his mouth. He held a hand to his mouth, “Pardon, oh my manners. Not for the uh, satisfying reason you might be lookin’ for.”

He reached in to his pocket and pulled out the last of his credits for the night, slamming them down on the bar top, “Tip for you, bartender. Cheers,” he said as he pushed off the bar.

“Your fancy talkin’ has me all turned about. I don’t know what you’re after, yeah? What you’re really after. An’ I feel like we’ll get along much better if you just,” he swayed back and forth with the alcohol catching up to him and pushed his hand out in a gesture, “ssay it. Flat,” he slurred as he gestured again to the people, looking out to them, “Talk to me like I’mmm one of the people. Let’s see what talkin’ to Rann gets ya.”

 

[Serina Calis]

Onderon: The Day of Fallen Leaves
Location: Onderon
Objective: Establish Relations with Locals
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Rann Thress

"Rebellion and rum, a match made in hell."​

Serina didn't move at first. She let him finish—let the drunken weight of his story settle, let the last flickers of his bravado gutter out like candlelight in a storm. Her silence, though still, was electric. A held breath. A coiled ribbon.

And when she finally straightened—when she rose from the bar just slightly, hips shifting with serpentine grace—it was not to dominate, not even to respond. It was to reveal.

Not herself.

Him.

She stepped close again, not in haste, but with the poise of a woman who owned every inch of ground she walked upon. Her heels clicked faintly against the bar's floorboards, echoing like punctuation marks as she closed the space between them. Close enough now that the crowd blurred away into sound and heat, leaving only the two of them caught in this small, intimate gravity.

She reached out—not for his hand, nor his chest—but for the rim of his empty mug, lifting it with a casual grace and inspecting the bottom.

"Beastmaster's," she mused, swirling the dregs as if deciphering omens in the drink. "A drink for men who don't want to forget. Just… dull the edges."

Her eyes, now locked on his, gleamed through the mask like molten gold behind blackened glass.

Then she set the mug down, gently, and leaned in.

"You want it flat?" she asked, her voice slipping out like smoke curling beneath a door.

The smile behind her mask sharpened.

"Then here it is, Rann."

She said his name like silk catching on a blade.

"You're absolutely right. You don't matter—not to the holonets, not to the galaxy, not to the bureaucrats parsing out star systems like slices of pie. You're one man with a metal arm, a tired soul, and ghosts who don't even visit anymore."

A pause. Her tone held, unwavering, low. Intimate. True.

"But that's exactly why I came to you."

Another breath passed. She took a step closer. Her chest nearly brushed his. The heat between them bloomed like fire under silk.

"Because power doesn't just live in thrones or warships or names carved into obelisks. Power lives in choice. In pain. In people who've suffered enough to stop fearing the price of their freedom."

Her hand reached up now—slow, ungloved this time. She'd removed it somewhere in the exchange, unnoticed. Her fingers, bare and cool, traced the edge of his jaw. Gently. Tenderly.

"You're right to question me. Right to wonder if I'm here to kill you. To seduce you. To use you."

Her thumb brushed against the corner of his mouth.

"And I'll tell you flat, like you asked: I came here tonight to see if you were already dead."

A beat.

Then her voice dropped into something even lower. Velvet turned to honey-soaked steel.

"Because I'm building something, Rann. Something real. And I don't need heroes. I don't need martyrs. I need survivors. People with nothing left to lose and just enough left to fight for that they'll take the world apart to protect it."

She let the words settle like ash. Let them sting.

Then, like a switch had been flipped, she tilted her head and her tone turned soft, playful again—dangerously so.

"Or maybe I just wanted to see the man who stole a priceless bottle of Tarul Wine and burped in my face."

She laughed—genuine, dark, and musical.

Her hand dropped from his face, but her presence did not retreat.

"You can walk away. You should, honestly." Her voice became almost mocking now. Daring. "You said it yourself—you're out of credits, out of the sun, out of the game."

She stepped aside slightly, not breaking their connection, but shifting just enough to let the path behind her open up. The crowd, the lights, the freedom he claimed not to want.

But her last line was the trap, the coil, the truth beneath every layer of flirtation and fury and wordplay.

"But if I'm wrong—if there's even a flicker of fire left in you—then come with me."

A challenge. A seduction. An offer written in shadows.

Her eyes gleamed.

"And I'll show you how dangerous you could still be."

 

[Rann Thress]

TAGS: Serina Calis

“You don’t even know who I am, what kind of man I am,” Rann replied with a dismissive tsk, “don’t know who you’re trying to recruit to your uh…whatever you’re up to,” he crossed his arms over his chest, rebalancing himself to keep steady, letting her hand rest on his face. It felt…strange. Not comforting, but not altogether unpleasant. It was a sensation that unnerved Rann.

I know how dangerous I still am, he thought to himself. “Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not out of the game. Not by a long shot,” he gestured to the small pile of credits on the bar top, “hardly out of credits either. That was only my drinkin’ money for the night. You don’t go to the Falling Leaves with a full wallet, everyone knows that,” he giggled drunkenly as he wondered how many people made that mistake tonight.

He focused on what she was saying, trying to decipher the deeper meaning behind her words. He put a finger to his lips as he pondered before finally speaking, “I’ve heard talk like this before,” he tried to place the dialog in his mind, tried to recall why it made him so uneasy.

“Hrm… Look. I’m not in the business of putting myself in strange situations to prove anything to anyone,” he tilted his head, “I do not trust you,” he said and dismissively waved his hand, “I can’t. I don’t know your name, you’ve told me yourself I’m right to be distrustful. That doesn’t…uh…endear you to me,” he shrugged weakly, “I guess…I trust you in a way…I believe you. I’m not interested in whatever it is you’re trying to do,” Rann shook his head, “I’ve nothing to prove to you. And nothin’ to prove to me.”

He looked over his shoulder, checking to see if anyone was immediately behind him, and took a step back to create distance between the two. His eyes refocused on hers, and his eyebrows knitting together, “You know who talks like you do? People who do great and terrible things,” be pursed his lips together and tilted his head in a begrudged acknowledgement. Her lines about power…choice. It all came together in his mind. It painted a picture, broad strokes of red paint on a black canvas, letters that together outlined a philosophy. One he had forsaken years ago.

Sith.

 

[Serina Calis]

Onderon: The Day of Fallen Leaves
Location: Onderon
Objective: Establish Relations with Locals
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Rann Thress

"Rebellion and rum, a match made in hell."​

She watched him step back.

And still, she did not follow.

No—Serina Calis never chased. She allowed space to form like steam rising between them, a necessary contrast to the intoxicating closeness of moments prior. His retreat was not rejection. It was confirmation. Confirmation that she had struck deep. That her words had landed not as flirtations, not as rhetoric, but as echoes in the hollows of his memory—echoes of something he'd almost forgotten how to fear.

She smiled behind the mask.

Not the cruel smile of a Sith, hungry to dominate.

Not the kindly smile of a Jedi, eager to soothe.

It was a smile of knowing. Of understanding. Of inevitability.

And when she spoke again, her voice had softened—but not lost an ounce of its weight. It dripped with velvet and midnight, threading through the air like a ribbon laced around a throat.

"You're right not to trust me, Rann."

She didn't blink, didn't avert her gaze. Her eyes locked with his like a tether being drawn tight, slow, deliberate.

"And I don't want your trust."

She stepped back herself now, mirroring him, her hands lowering to her sides. Her mask tilted ever so slightly—less a gesture of challenge now, and more… reverence. A kind of dark respect. The sort given to an opponent worthy of being understood, not dismissed.

"I want your attention."

Her words didn't flirt. They wrapped. Around him. Around this moment.

"You say I don't know who you are." She circled slowly, eyes never leaving his. "That I don't know what kind of man you are. But listen to me, and listen well—I don't need to know your name to know what haunts you."

She passed behind him now, just a slow drift of silk and voice. Not touching. Never touching. That was too easy. It was the possibility that poisoned the air between them.

"I've seen men like you on battlefields long after the war was over. In throne rooms long after their crowns had rusted. Men with greatness carved out of them. With kindness strangled beneath the need to survive."

She came full circle, facing him again.

"And what terrifies you most, Rann—what makes you look at me like I'm some siren trying to pull you under—isn't that I speak like someone who does great and terrible things…"

She stepped close again. Just enough. Barely a whisper between their bodies. Her words now brushed against him like breath along his collar.

"…it's that I speak like you used to."

She let that hang. Let it sink, not like a knife, but like a confession.

"I can see it in you."

One slow step forward—not to close the distance, but to test the gravity. Her presence stretched toward him like a hand extended in a dream.

"You're tired of being remembered as something you're not. Tired of pretending that peace is something you're made for. You've been someone's symbol. Someone's weapon. You've worn the armor, haven't you?"

She didn't mean the kind that covered the chest. She meant the kind that shaped the soul.

"But that armor's heavy. Even when you take it off. You still feel it pressing on your skin."

A pause. Then, softly:

"It's pressing on you right now."

Then she drew back, ever so slightly. A reprieve. A mercy.

"You said you've heard talk like this before." Her head tilted. "Good. Because that means some part of you remembers what the galaxy looks like when people stop apologizing for being strong."

Her tone mellowed again, a sultry smoothness threading through each word.

"But I'm not Sith, Rann. I'm not here to twist your loyalty, or drag you into war." She exhaled through her nose, lips parting just enough to taste the lie on the air. "I don't want to chain you to a cause or drape you in dogma. Those things bore me."

Her fingers danced across her own collarbone now, idly, lazily, the bare skin peeking from beneath the slits of her robe catching the torchlight in amber hues.

"No… I break chains, Rann. Even the ones people pretend they don't wear anymore."

Then her hand fell, and her voice dipped low—nearly a whisper now.

"You say you've nothing to prove. That your time's passed." She paused, and her next words were soft. Honest.

"I believe you."

But there was steel behind it. Seduction interlaced with something far more dangerous: sincerity.

"But if that's true, then you shouldn't still feel that ache behind your ribs when I talk. You shouldn't still be wondering what I see when I look at you."

A breath passed. Music played in the background. Laughter rang. And between them, silence sang.

Finally, she turned—slow, fluid, and began to walk. Not far. Just a few paces, her back now to him. She paused there, looking out over the city square bathed in amber revelry.

"Go back to the celebration, Rann." Her voice floated back to him like silk in the wind. "Return to your shadows. Drink until the silence sleeps."

Another pause.

"But if the ache doesn't go away…"

She turned her head just enough for him to see the gleam of her eyes over her shoulder.

"…find me."

And with that, she stepped forward and vanished into the crowd—not hidden, not cloaked. Just gone. A ripple in the festival. A shadow kissed by light. A ghost who left behind nothing but a voice, a taste, and the unbearable truth:

She had seen him.

And that was more dangerous than anything she could have done.

 

[Vivia Rompdew1]

Tags: Rann Thress

After the Jedi had confirmed Vivia's identity, as well as that of the man she killed, she told them about the 2 suspicious force users she encountered. The three of them went into the bar, but she couldn't see nor sense the woman. Great, Vivia thought. Now she probably has whatever she came for. However she had another reason for being dissapointed. You see, when she was briefed on the legends of the world between worlds before being sent to hunt down the second to last leader of the Tython coallition, she was told that according to legend, one could use the dark side to access the world between worlds. If she could capture the woman who likely was a darksider, she could potentially interrogate her, and either get her to give Vivia access, or at least tell her who could help her. Either way, she wasn't here, and Vivia needed to focus on the here and now. Vivia pointed out the man to the Jedi. The twi'lek suggested that only one of them should approach the man while the others listened to their conversation, as to not seem threatening, so the quarren went up to the man and said to him,
"Good evening sir. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"

 

[Vivia Rompdew1]

Vivia had convinced the Jedi to let her go, but she decided against it. she had a bad feeling about whatever was going on on onderon