Surrounded by the tragic parade of theatrical capes, feudal tunics, and scandalous gowns, Razmir's suit held up as a shining diamond of elegance—sharp, clean, and unmistakably meant for a better age. Hand-cut. Impeccably tailored. Defined not by trend, but by truth. Relaxed, but far from casual. The wool was shorn from sheep that traced their lineage to a family native to Alderaan, long before its first apocalypse nine-hundred years ago.
Wearing the suit, Razmir didn't simply look sharp. He was untouchable.
Why, then, did it bother him that he couldn't tell whether the people here kept glancing his way because they admired his forward-thinking sense of style or because they were gossiping and laughing behind his back because he stood out?
Grumbling under his breath, he snatched another glass of the local wine blend from a passing waiter and started back towards the duke's table. As he walked, he glanced to check up on some of his crew to distract himself from the rest of the backwater yokels.
Carver, the elderly Defel with dark brown fur, had cornered two victims to torture for the night—though, perhaps torture was too strong a word. The old couple he conversed with seemed genuinely smitten by the endless stream of pictures Carver produced of his kids back home.
A couple groups further he could see Crowbeak mingling with the younger nobles. His black beak stood out against the red plumage flaring out from beneath his attire. Both Carver and he had chosen to wear something more local to better blend in with the other guests. A particular hurdle that had proven too much for Raz to overcome.
He took a sip of the wine, scrunching his face at the sour note it left on his tongue.
He didn't spot Yeza or Sil anywhere in the crowds. He hadn't seen either of them since the crew first entered the ballroom and split up. Most likely, he considered, they snuck off to check out the duke's security systems, taking advantage of the fact everyone else would be too busy mingling and socializing. The two had always been the most effective duo of their crew.
Raz smiled. Perhaps tonight he and Cardinal would finally one up them. He glanced to his tall friend seated next to a shorter figure with red-brown hair. Cardinal wore long white robes, trimmed in black and gold-clearly marking him as a man of the faith. He had managed to draw their host, the duke, into a deep conversation. The conversation likely covered the finer points of Force theology and its implications on society in great depth and detail. The duke, apparently, was well versed in such matters, and Raz knew Cardinal was more than happy to indulge.
As long as Cardinal remembered to work in the few conversational hooks they'd prepared to nudge the duke toward their deal, Raz didn't begrudge the distraction. If anything, he felt a strange sort of relief. Cardinal had always craved someone who could match his depth of knowledge on faith and philosophy. Maybe the duke was doing more good than they'd planned.
With a smile, Raz eased into a nearby conversation-close enough to stay within the duke's line of sight. Close enough to keep up the subtle touch of emotional pressure.
Corazona von Ascania