hello helloooo lets goo
The moons are at their highest, and all a stranger might see is the beauty of the scenery lit by those pale blue orbs: a luminous dining hall atop an obsidian rock peaking up amidst the raging ocean, the delicious food presented on golden plates, the courtiers leaning over the balconies to catch nocturnal butterflies on their hands, filigrane wings emitting a warm glow on their palms.
Neira sees a battlefield under a starry sky. She sees humans dressed up as gods who don't even pretend to care about the dice they toss, a struggle of power and about who plays their part the best.
She sees a place where words are even more cruel than weapons, and where nobody needs to be armed heavily – at least not with knives made out of steel and metal.
The most beautiful battlefields are the cruelest ones: blended by its grace you don't even realize what you lose before its too late.
But other than Obi-Wan Neira hs already learnt to navigate in this turbulent waters that are Cevarya's politics, she is actually one to dare to try and control it. So she sees words yielded like swords and sentences shot like bullets, bright smiles and clenched fists, facades on the verge of crumbling. Stakes so high even the gods would flinch.
The Cevaryans don't.
Politics is a war on Cevarya, a war that is a well-known game to Neira.
A game of which she is on top, one that she hates and loves at the same time. She is good at it, these fights – her smile is the most dangerous weapon of them all, slightly curled red lips a sign that her opponent has lost before he even realizes. No bulletprood wests, why should she? A dress is more powerful than these could ever be. Black midnight silk wrapped around her silhouette held by small straps on her shoulders gives sight to her tanned arms and shoulders, powdered with shimmering gold. The soft skirts swings around her legs with every step, its surface catching the golden light of the candles and absorbing it into the fabric until no one is sure wether she is a flame or girl.
An armour of protection to hide what is hidden beneath, buried deep down. But from herself or from the world, Neira doesn't know.
She spots the Jedi in the crowd again, his auburn hair and simple beige and brown robes standing out between all the courtiers. Obi-Wan Kenobi, that is his name – she heard him introducing himself to a courtier earlier.
They have met briefly earlier, and from what she has deducted from their short meeting he carries a calmness in him that nobody else here has – and there is kindness in him as well, unfortunately. Unfortunately, since it will make him a harder opponent to face.
Even now as he moves between the courtiers an aura of peace and tranquility emerges in gentle ripples off him, she can even sense it from the other side of the room – wind washing over a silent aquamarine ocean, the smell of old books and wisdom, a gentle hand yielding a sword in the name of peace. He must have noticed her glance, because he looks up and Neira quickly turns her face away.
He will be a threat. He already is. Her and her mother's plan is so close to succeeding, they can't risk it.
Neira has to get closer. Entangle him in their web of lies and plans until he is predictable like the others, carefully guiding his attention away from what he might find suspicious, find out how much he knows, in what patterns his brain works.
To understand your opponent is the first victory.
And she knows how.
A dance is quite an unique situation – for a certain amount of time two people, strangers even, are tied together just by music and a pattern of steps, inevitably exposing information even without a word being spoken. But most importantly it gives a chance to analyze, to lace a casual conversation with questions, investigating ever so subtly that – if you're good enough – the other one doesn't notice. A dance has a habit of catching us off guard.
