Party Animals
Posted on Sun Feb 1st, 2026 @ 10:22pm by Thane & Bomoor Thort & Amare & Melliah Glynt
Edited on on Tue Feb 17th, 2026 @ 12:25pm
2,391 words; about a 12 minute read
Chapter:
Chapter VIII: Broken Chains
Location: Wyrd Estate, New Alderaan
Timeline: Day Seven, after "Masquerade"
OLD
"You honour me, my lord," she spoke in gentle acceptance as she held forth her hand to him, palm down, seeking his offer of escort. She could feel the eyes of the guests, and briefly something else...a strange perverted ebb and flow of the Force that felt odd along the length of her spine, reminding her of Bespin, but different in its own way.
A part of her didn't like seeing poor Alric's dismissal as she had enjoyed watching him find his inner confidence to regale her in courtly conversation. She enjoyed watching the underdog rise to the occasion and prove himself worthy. Yet, the Sith way was to exploit what is most useful, and discard the rest. For the moment, Caelen was clearly the more prestigious choice to be with.
His eyes examined the room. He knew his reaching out into the Force would not go unnoticed by any true cultists hidden within the stonework of this twisted palace.
They needed to go deeper, past the facade. Locating her with his settled, blue gaze, he made his way towards Amare.
NEW
Thane saw the moment before it completed, and he briefly paused in his stride to his apprentice.
The shift was subtle from what he could see;×the angle of Caelen Wyrd’s body as he offered his arm, the way the space around Amare adjusted to accommodate the heir’s confidence, the attention of the room narrowing with renewed interest. It was a practiced manoeuvre, executed with the assurance of someone used to claiming rather than asking.
Good, Thane thought.
He felt no flicker of jealousy, no possessive heat. Only a cool, measured approval. Amare navigated this world with an ease he did not pretend to share. Where he endured ceremony, she inhabited it. Where he chafed at pretence, she weaponised it.
He stepped in smoothly, timing his approach so that it read as courtesy rather than interruption.
"My lord," Thane said to Caelen, voice warm enough to pass muster, eyes steady and unreadable, still carefully managed as a natural blue. "I see my ward has already attracted the attention she deserves." A pause, just long enough, he hoped, to establish presence. "I trust you will forgive me for a moment," he continued, turning slightly toward Amare. "Old habits. Caanus breeds a certain protectiveness."
His hand came to rest lightly at her elbow, a familiar gesture, paternal in its framing. As he leaned closer, the movement concealed by bodies and music alike, his fingers shifted. Metal met fabric. Weight transferred. The lightsaber passed from his sleeve into her grasp with practiced precision.
"She is quite capable," Thane added mildly, withdrawing his hand as though nothing had passed between them at all. His gaze returned to Caelen, polite, assessing, if some of his drier, darker and true personality still sought to bleed through. "But, she remains under my protection." He inclined his head a fraction, a concession without submission. "Please," he added, stepping back, allowing the moment to resume its course. "Do enjoy the evening."
A slight blush filled Amare's cheeks, an old trick learned from her Nar Shaddaa days, both practiced and insincere, feigning her embarrassment from faux father figure's protective sojourn. The sleight of hand passing the shoto to her hand was icing on the cake and she deftly slipped it at her back beneath her sash, further concealed by the draped veils of her capelet.
"Always looking out for me," she said to Caelan with a dainty sigh as Thane sauntered off. "The Heirtur's kindness is a blessing. Though sometimes I feel he should trust me to take care of myself a little more." She felt the taste of the irony of her words in her mouth, and it was bitter indeed.
Caelen smiled at that, an easy, indulgent curve of the mouth.
"Protectors often struggle to let go," he said lightly. "Especially those who have lost… structure." His gaze flicked briefly in the direction Thane had gone, dismissive without being overt. "Titles reclaimed late tend to carry a certain anxiety with them." He offered his arm again, this time with confidence rather than courtesy. "You will find House Wyrd less restrictive," he continued. "We value continuity over control. You will be safe here. Seen. Appreciated."
There was certainty in his tone, the kind born of never having been contradicted. And beneath it, unspoken but absolute, was the assumption that whatever power Thane believed himself to wield was already accounted for.
Amare accepted the offered arm with a tender smile. "I feel appreciated already," she said with silky faux gratitude as Caelen took the lead with Amare in his care. As she strode with the elder son, Amare could feel the envious eyes of the younger Wyrd on her.
Another pair of eyes watched the exchange across the room; having shaken off some of the attention, Bomoor brought a gently foaming drink up to one pair of lips as he watched Amare deftly conceal the weapon she had been passed. He hummed his approval at the perfect manoeuvre, only recognisable to him because of his foreknowledge. Bringing the glass down to hold it in both hands, he turned his attention to Thane who had now retreated back, closer to the far end of the hall where a grand but conspicuously empty seat sat below an ornate oil on canvas portrait depicting a middle-aged man, bearing strikingly-similar features to Caelen Wyrd. Clearly a relative and obviously one of great importance.
As Bomoor gazed across at it, he felt the approach of someone. Another woman - the one that had been keeping her distance earlier. The Ithorian did not turn to face her immediately but could see her silken red dress absorbing her peripheral vision as she draw beside.
"You and your companions are quite the curiosity for our guests, and, it seems, the young masters," her voice was low but still rich and feminine, "Although, I think they may only have eyes for your young woman."
Angling his head fully, Bomoor saw the woman more fully: fair-skinned and wearing an orange phoenix-styled mask that concealed just the upper portion of her face, the woman wore a bold smile that tipped gently to one side above a soft rounded chin. There was something else about her too: an essence that she exuded as though her Force essence was reaching out to his own.
She chuckled politely as she must have seen him puzzling, "Oh, I'm not surprised you sensed it so quickly. I could tell you were a special one."
As she spoke, she reached up and undid the delicate bow behind her mask and allowed it to slide down, revealing a tightly-bound crimson wrap below it. Upon seeing it, Bomoor knew what he could sense immediately: she was Miralukan. Her blind race were almost entirely Force-sensitive, allowing them to perceive their surroundings without needing eyes, even if they retained redundant eye sockets from an earlier point in their evolutionary history.
"Oh," chimed Bomoor, "I did not mean to pry, but I suppose I let my curiosity slip and that does make sense to me now. I suppose that is part of the charm of a masquerade ball: the curiosity about what is hiding underneath."
"Curiosity is hardly a crime," she said, slipping the mask fully into her hand. "Especially for one who sees as you do. Ithorians have always been… attuned. Honest in their perception."
Her head tilted slightly, the gesture small but precise, giving her sightless gaze a more intense feeling.
"And yet," she added, "You seem uncomfortable."
Bomoor shuffled his shoulders slightly at being read so openly, "It is a… lively gathering,” he offered, careful, diplomatic, "Much to take in."
Her smile curved to the other side, subtle and knowing.
"Lively indeed..." she echoed his sentiment before adding, "Though an acquired taste to those not acquainted with the many rules and rituals of high society."
She retied her mask with deft fingers, the phoenix visage settling back into place like a second expression. When she spoke again, her tone had shifted: still warm, but carrying the weight of someone accustomed to being listened to.
"I should offer my name, before I seem too forward," she spoke with a small, graceful inclination of her head, "Mistress Glynt. Vizier to Lord Wyrd.”
Bomoor straightened a fraction, instinctively respectful, "An honour to meet you."
"Mm," Her head tilted more backwards now, that sightless gaze sharpening as she peered up at him in the Force, "You carry yourself with gentleness, Master Thort. A rare quality in this hall."
Her attention then seemed to drift towards the crowd.
“But your companions…” she spoke in a soft hum, "When the Lord arrives, he will expect harmony. Courtesy. A certain… restraint. I would hate for a misunderstanding to sour the evening."
Bomoor felt the meaning settle. It was a warning, yes, but he was unclear if it was a threat or sincere advice.
"I trust," she added, "That you can keep them aligned. You seem the sort who holds things together."
Before he could answer, she stepped back, the warmth returning as smoothly as if it had never left.
"Enjoy the festivities, Master Thort," she gave a courteous wave, "I should let Lord Wyrd know that all the guests are arrived and settled so he can make his appearance."
With that, she slipped back into the crowd, her presence dissolving into the masked tide as though she had never been there at all. Bomoor could still sense her though: now he was attuned to it, he felt her burning presence as she whisked away and out of the hall.
A vizier? he thought, If anyone would know what is happening behind the scenes, it would be her. But her pointed warning put him on edge: was she warning him of the threat, or was she the threat?
As Bomoor had noticed, Thane had withdrawn to the far end of the hall. It was a natural migration, the sort expected of a noble assessing unfamiliar ground. He stood beneath the painting as though it had drawn him there by coincidence, hands loosely folded behind his back, posture composed and unchallenging. From a distance, he looked every inch the dutiful guest, giving space to the centre of the room and allowing younger, brighter figures to command attention.
Up close, the portrait was impossible to ignore.
The canvas depicted a middle aged man in formal Alderaanian attire, the cut of his robes severe even by old standards. The face was unmistakable now that Thane had seen Caelen more clearly - it was his father, the Lord Caelric Wyrd. The same bone structure, the same set of the jaw, though heavier here, worn by time and authority rather than confidence. The eyes had been painted with particular care. Too much care, perhaps.
Thane felt it immediately.
Not a presence in the way a living mind pressed back through the Force, but a residue - a threading. Something worked into the oils and pigments themselves, bound with repetition and intent rather than raw power. The sensation reminded him uncomfortably of certain Sith reliquaries and artefacts they had uncovered in the past months Objects not alive, not sentient, but long accustomed to being near something that was, and perhaps woven in such strands.
He did not soften his awareness. Instead, he opened himself further again, as he had before.
The Force once more answered without hesitation. It spilled outward, unfiltered, riding the edges of his irritation and disdain like a blade drawn slowly from a sheath. He wanted it to be felt by any that could. He wanted the cultists hidden in stone and ritual to know something had entered their carefully preserved system that did not ask permission.
After a moment, currents bent. Music warped at the edges of his perception. The Force pooled and thinned in uneven measures, revealing the architecture beneath the performance. This place was layered, physically and within the Force. Not merely ceremonial above and profane below, but braided. Old Alderaan’s symmetry laid over something older, harsher, shaped for containment and endurance rather than beauty - and something much more sinister both forging the halls and walking them.
His eyes burned just as he felt them drawn towards Bomoor and the masked woman speaking with him. Once again, his visage was threatening to expose itself through the use of the power. His jaw tightened and breath slowed. With deliberate effort, he forced the visible change back down, compressing it behind the familiar Human mask he had worn until recently. When his gaze lifted again, he knew he had succeeded - but the woman that had been with Bomoor was gone.
Arrogance had its uses, but spectacle did not. Still, he let the pressure remain.
If anyone here carried Axion’s mark, if anyone had learned to listen for disturbances rather than fear them, they would feel him now. They would know something had shifted, or so he hoped.
Thane’s attention returned to the painting. He reached, just enough, letting his awareness brush the canvas once more. The residue there was old. Anchored. Not a conduit, as he understood it, but certainly touched. He felt their suspicions and research around the Wyrd Bargain was being rewarded.
A clear note then cut through the music.
A herald had stepped forward at the far end of the hall, staff struck once against the polished stone. Conversations fell away with practised ease. Masks turned and bodies aligned - almost too slickly, and with much less of the staggered adjustment Thane had grown to expect from most sentients, including Jedi in their temples. It unsettled something else within him.
"Lords and ladies," the herald announced, voice resonant and trained to carry without strain. "House Wyrd welcomes you. Pray attend."
From a side entrance framed by pale columns and heavy drapery, movement stirred.
"The Lord and Lady of House Wyrd."
He did not look away from the portrait as the words settled. Whatever walked out to greet them now, he knew one thing with certainty: this house believed itself eternal.
And eternity, Thane mused, having learned from both the Jedi and the Sith, always resented being challenged.
TBC
THANE
▬ Force Concealment Increase
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